
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Shelf .ZP#j:y 1 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 










3*^aKS!* 




f 



Gleanings feom Populak Authors, 

GRAVE AND GAY. 




"STRAIGHT TO THE MAYOR HE TOOK HIS WAT." 



GLEANINGS 



FROM 



POPULAR AUTHORS 



GRAVE AND GAY 



INTRODUCTION BY 

EDWARD J. HARDING 

Author of "Cothurnus and Lyre," Etc. 



ILLUSTRATED 




CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited 

NEW YORK, LONDON, PARIS AND MELBOURNE 






^f^^' 



Copyright, 1886, 
By O. M. DUNHAM. 

All rights reserved. 






PRESS OF HUNTER & BEACH, 
NEW YORK, 






INTRODUCTION. 



I HAVE occasionally amused my fancy by feigning the existence of a future state 
for books — a whole phantasmal world inhabited by the ghosts of dead and gone epics, 
dramas, romances, and where all the characters of fiction glide murmuring by, yeritable 
shadows of shades. Over the portico would be inscribed " Hahent sua fata libelUj" 
and the three kingdoms would all be thronged. In the infernal regions proper, we 
should look to find Heine and Swift and all the swarm of gross and profane writers, 
and with them whatever in literature is trite or dull or insincere, for in art these 
are among the cardinal sins. That which is not good in literature is bad ; there is 
no mean or borderland. Neither gods nor men nor birds of the air can endure an 
indifEerent bard. Yet better a quavering note than a false one; and for your dis- 
sembling poet the deepest dungeons are in store. Many a sonnet that in its day was 
greatly praised, resembling with its mincing gait and affected phrase some fine 
coquette, now lies "quite chapfallen," spite of all its airs and graces and "jDaint an 
inch thick." For a lie is in its nature mortal and vulnerable ; your glass and 
plaster will sooner or later crack and crumble, how bravely soever they flaunt it in 
robes of silver or bronze ; that which a man but half feels, but half believes, is 
forever at war with itself, and will die self-slain. False taste of a certain sort we 
call meretricious ; the phrase implies a harsh censure, but a just one. A fair and 
honest thought will never be over-dressed. A noble conception, a fine fancy, how- 
ever it may suffer in effectiveness or grace when clothed in other language, will still 
retain some power to thrill or charm, for beauty is unchangeable in its essence; but 
how woefully the poverty of many a pompous phrase is exposed by stripping it of 
its rhetoric! "One that wrajos the drapery of his couch about him" does but tuck 
himself up in his bed-clothes; and if the latter is not a striking or poetical image, 
then neither is the former. But take such an image as this : 

"I lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven, 
damsel, in the light of your blue eyes," 

and try to degrade it by substituting any equivalent phrase, and you will have your 
labor for your pains. 

There are literary sins, nowever, which are of a more venial type than affecta- 
tion or tediousness, and for such offences we should expect to find a purgatory 
prepared. Here might suffer and repent, not without hope, such works as were 
crude or flawed or ill-regulated ; the monuments of misdirected energy, novels with 

i 



INTRODUCTION. 



a mission, pbilo-Baconian Shakespeare commentaries, and such-like towers of Babel, 
would fitly be consigned to purgatory. Here, too, would be found all merely 
imitative literature; not in the lowest depth, for imitation demands a certain sincerity, 
a certain appreciation of the thing imitated ; ay, and sometimes there is a grace in 
the mimicry that goes far to excuse it. But unless the writer puts something of 
himself into his work — something good and admirable — your copyist is but an echo, 
and must share the fate of that disembodied nymph. Purgatory should be a populous 
place, recruited as it is from so large a class. How much of our early American 
literature has vanished thither ! Well-meaning books, many of them; ay, and useful 
too, in their own day and among their own audience, for not a few of us prefer 
good to best, mock turtle to real. "All claret would be port if it could," said Dr. 
Johnson; and for my part I find it hard to blame an unrealized aspiration. There 
is respectable society in purgatory, and the book that arrives there might easily have 
gone further and fared worse. Many an early work of a great writer has its home 
there, and plumes itself, no doubt, on its relationship to the nobility. Parodies and 
burlesques are sins against the light, and must be sought in a lower sphere. 

Needless to pursue the fancy further; the Elysian Fields of literature are famil- 
iar ground. Indeed, it scarcely seems a metaphor to speak of the soul of a noble 
book, so marked and characteristic is the impression which it leaves. Some books 
are like lovely ladies or charming children ; some like gallant knights, pious priests, 
lovers, gipsies. There are poems which resemble an exquisite violin-solo, a porcelain 
vase, a cup of ivory curiously carved ; others are like a trumpet call, a cataract, a 
tempest; others are akin to the mountain, the forest, the starlit skies. "Hamlet" is 
like the wailing of the winter wind ; " As You Like It " is a mountain brook ; 
"Kubla Khan" is a frost-picture on a window-pane; "Childe Harold" is a ruin 
tinged with moonlight ; " In Memoriam " a rainbow. Your song or story may be a 
cigarette, or a butterfly, or a peach, or a game of chess ; jasmine, violets, a nightin- 
gale, a kiss ; a splendid robe, a flying carpet, a spyglass, an altar ; strong wine, 
sweet milk, pure water, salt air. And then the characters of drama and fiction, the 
heroes of ballad and epic, what a goodly host they make, and what a wonderful 
world they inhabit ! Though for the matter of that, had we but eyes to see, this 
actual world of ours is far more strange and fair than any the poets feign, howso- 
ever the "light that never was on sea or land" may illumine it. But it is Art's 
mission to teach us to see and hear and feel ; to find the immortal hidden in the 
mortal. And hence it is that our friends m fiction are better known to us, almost 
more real to us, than our own kinsmen and companions. We believe in Colonel 
Newcome, although we never knew his like ; we recognize Rosalind at a glance ; 
Falstaff and lago, Margaret and Becky Sharp, Pecksniff and Uncle Toby, how vividly 
we remember them all ! And here let the Comic Muse claim her rightful place. If 
beauty is immortal, then wit is equally so. If, as the familiar verse of Keats affirms, 
the persistence of its power to please is the test of beauty, the same thing is true of 
wit. Your quibbles and far-fetched pleasantries, indeed, soon pall on the palate, 



INTRODUCTION. 



and a stale joke is even flatter than a stale moral. But a genuine piece of sound 
humor outlasts the ages, braving translator and commentator alike. Old Aristo- 
phanes can tickle us yet ; Dogberry's charge to the ■watch and M. Jourdain's delight 
in his native talent for iDrose are a joy forever. If Shakespeare's allusions were 
modernized for the reader, as would be done with a foreign classical author, we 
should earn many a laugh that our ignorance makes ns lose. And indeed a sweet 
laugh is pure music, pleasant alike to laugher and listener. Critics might come to 
prescribe the canons of wit and formulate its principles; nay, jests might be con- 
structed "by line and level;" observing the approved intervals and modulations, the 
laws of consonance and dissonance, as correctly as your mathematician's music. But 
it would be a sorry task to dissect a joke as though it were a syllogism, to weigh 
Puck in the scales and brush the bloom off Punchinello's grapes. We want to 
laugh, not to see the working of the showman's wires ; and after all it takes genius 
to create, no less in the realm of Humor than elsewhere. All hail then to "Jest 
and Youthful Jollity," whom even the singer of "Paradise Lost" was fain to 
invoke. 

The fancy upon which I played awhile ago ought not to be deemed in any wise 
irreverent. For if the best books are those which make the best men, how high a 
calling is that of the writer ! How heinous an offender is he who dishonors his gift ! 
The feeling of an honest literary craftsman in regard to his work is akin to that of 
the old monkish transcribers over their illuminated missals ; we spare not ourselves, 
for the work is worthy. Let it be pardoned me, then, if I return for a moment to 
my original thought. Anthologies and compilations, such as the present volume, 
somewhat resemble my fabled Paradise of Books. There are the Dii Majorum Gen- 
tium, the high-caste gods of literature, "aloft in awful state;" then come the lesser 
deities, and then the nymphs and fauns and translated heroes. Or let us rather 
liken it to a gathering of old friends, a Christmas company assembled under one 
roof — a company where none is dull, or trite, or profane; where every one earns his 
welcome, and stories new and old go round with the wine. So be it then ; and 
Prosit ! 

EDWARD J. HARDING. 




My Child- Wife . 

Bret Harte in Verse 

A Spoilt Boy . " . 

Paul Eevere's Eide 

A Highland Feud . 

The Rhine and the Moselle 

Sent lo God 

His Speech 

The Autobiography of a Wedding 

How to Wash a Dog 

The Christmas Choir 

Winstanley 

Rip Van Winkle . 

The Falcon 

A Quarter-Hour Chime 

Love in a Balloon 

The Discontented Pendulum 

The BaUad of OarmiDian . 

My Fare 

Ten Minutes with Puck . 

The Taming of the Shrew 

Two Clever Sailors 

Attacked hy Pirates 

The Prisoner of ChiUon 

Check to a Burglar 

Mr. and Mrs. Tihhs at VauxhaU 

The Tiger . 

The Dream of Eugene Aram 

Baron Trenck 

Jack Goodwin's Joke 

The Grave of Macleod of Dare 

Nothing to Wear . 

The Soap and Wather 

The Slave Ship 



Rinq 



Charles Dickens 

Captain Marryat . 

Henky Wadsworth Lonopeliow 

Sir Walter Scott . 

Edwin Aenold 

Mas Adeler . . . 

W. R. S. Ralston . 

Thomas Hardy 
Jean Ingelow 
Washington Irving 

Oliver Wendell Holmes . 

Theyre Smith 

Jane Taylor 

Henry Wadsworth Longfello-b' 

G. Manville Fenn . 

H. Cholmondeley-Pennell 

Charles Lamb 

Heraclitus Grey 

Chakles Eeade 

Lord Byron 

G. Manville Fenn . 

Oliver Goldsmith . 

William Blake 

Thomas Hood 



William Black 
William Allan Butlku 
Samuel Lover 
J. G. Whittier 



PAGE 

2 



12 
U 
19 
20 
22 
26 
27 
28 
32 
36 
42 
44 
48 
51 
52 
55 
58 
60 
64 
65 
70 
74 
78 
79 
80 
82 
85 
88 
92 
97 
99 



CONTENTS. 



The Bachelor's Thermometer 

Briary Villas 

Home Again 

The Leaden Weight 

Broken Hearts 

Niagara in Winter 

The Song of the Shirt 

At Mrs. Jellyhy's 

Ben Blower's Story 

A Eeally Good Day's Fishing 

Lord XTllin's Daughter 

My XJncle Roland's Tale . 

Bevis at Home 

Poor Miss Finch . 

Captain Eeece 

The Tower of London 

Leedle Yawcoh Strauss 

Happy Thoughts . 

The Value of Thought 

Rupert's March 

Mr. Rabbit and Mr, Fox . 

First Blood 

My Mistakes 

The Bells . 

My Examination . 

A Cold Reception . 

King Jolm and the Ahhot . 

Sleighing in the Snow 

My Aunt . 

The Bravery of Bailie Nicol Jarvio 

A Dreadful Affair 

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 

The Dilemma of Phadrig 

Hcrvc Eiel 

A Literary Dinner 

To Althea from Prison 

In Wonderland 

The Briefless Barrister 

The Vicar's Guest 

The Shipwreck 

Mrs. Brown on the Army . 

The Showman's Song 



James Smith 

William Sawyek 

Chakles Gibbon 

Geo. Augustus Saia 

Thomas Hood 

Chakles Dickens 

Chahles p. Hoffman 

James Payn 

Thomas Campbell 

Lord Lytton 

Richard Jepfeeie.= 

WiLKiE Collins 

W. S. Gilbert 

William Hepworth Dixon 

Charles F. Adams 

f. c. burnand 

John Ruskin 

Walter Thornbury 

J. C. Harris 

J. Fenimoue Cooper 

Richard WnixEiNa . 

Edgar Allan Poe . 

Captain Mareyat . 

F. W. Robinson 

From " The Fircy licliqtws " 

Colonel Fred Burnaey 

Oliver Wendell Holmes 

Sir Walter Scott 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge 
Gerald Griffin 
Robert Browning 
W. M. Thackeray 
Richard Lovelace 
William Senior 
John G. Saxe 
Thomas Archer 
Jane Porter 
Arthur Skutchley 
Henry J. Byron 



CONTENTS. 



Brought to Bay 

Her Letter 

Othello eii Amateur 

Boys will be Boys 

Tour London Lyrics : — Jly Mistress's Boots 
Sli's. Smith ; The Housemaid ; The Crossing- 
sweeper 

The Story of Le Fevro 

The Jackdaw of Eheims . 

The Tale of the English Sailor . 

Gone Home on New Year's Eve . 

Mr. Grains' Lake . 

The Strangest Adventure 

Phojhe's Suitor 

Attorney Sneak 

The Eox's Tale 

The Homes of the Poor 

Ode to a Nightingale 

The First Mate 

Grizzly .... 

The Pauper's Drive 

The Two Wellers . 

The Apple Dumplings and a King 

The Pit and the Pendulum 

Home Troubles 

The Buccaneer's Treasure 

The Courtin' 

Going Home 

Our Jerusalem Pony 

The Spanish Aimada 

What 1 went through to get Her 

Master and Man 

The Shandon BeUs 

One Struggle 

Gil Bias' Adventures at Pennaflor 

A Fatal Attachment 

The Boat Race 

Helping a Lame Dog over a Stile 

Fair Rosamond 

The Showman's Courtship 

A Thank Offering 

The Story of a Gridiron , 



B-KET Haute 
Chaules Lever 



PAGE 

222 
225 
226 
230 



Frederick Locker 


234 


Laukexce Sterke . 


236 


The Kev. Thomas Bahham 


240 


Captain Marryat 


243 


F. E. Weatherly 


246 


Lt.-Colonel Hough 


249 


. 


250 


Miss Braddon 


253 


Robert Buchanan . 


257 


Samuel I;Over 


259 


Mrs. Henry Wooy . 


263 


John Keats 


268 


James Russell Lowell 


269 


AValter Besant and James Rice . 


270 


Thomas Noel 


273 


Charles Dickens 


274 


Dr. Wolcot 


276 


Edgar Allan Poe 


278 


. 


284 


Washington Irving 


286 


James Russell Lowell 


289 


Edmund Yates 


289 


James Payn 


292 


Lord Macaulay 


295 


Lt.-Colonel Hough 


297 


Thomas Crofton Croker . 


302 


From " The Reliques of Father Front" 


305 


F. W. RoiilNSON 


306 


xVlain Rene Le Sage 


308 


W. M. Thackeray . . ■ . 


311 


W. C. Bennett 


315 


Frank E. Smedley 


317 


Owen Meredith (The Earl of Lytton) 


321 


Aetemus Ward 


324 


G. Manville Fenn 


326 


Samuel Lover 


329 



CONTENTS. 



The Vision of the Maid of Orloans 

Drawn for a Soldier 

The Eibbonman 

BaUad 

Falstaff the Valiant 

The Tired Jester . 

The Clergyman's Story 

The Lays of Longfellow : The Day is Done ; 
The Bui-ial of the Minnisink ; The Village 
Blacksmith ; Weariness , The Children's 
Hour ; King Christian ; The Eainy Day 

The Siege of Torquilstone 

Noble Poverty 

Mazeppa's Punishment 

Striking lie . 

Bardell against Pickwick 

At the Alma 

The Blind Linnet . 



eobert southey 
Thomas Hood 
William Cakleton 
C. S. Calverley 
Shakespeare 
William Sawyer 
Charles Dickens 



PAGE 

333 
337 
338 
342 
343 
345 
346 



Day 


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow . 


350 




Sir Walter Scott .... 


355 




Laurence Sterne .... 


358 




Lord Byron 


360 




Walter Besant and James Eice . 


.. 362 




Charles Dickens .... 


366 




William Howard Eessell 


371 




EOEERT BcICHANAH . 


375 




IlSrTEODUCTOEY. 




f HERE are times when, per- 
haps with a few minutes 
to spare, or maybe weary, 
a lover of reading says to 
himself, "I want a book;" 
and he feels that he requires 
a volume upon which he can lay 
his hand, and without trouble or 
research, open it anywhere, sure 
of finding something into which, 
without preface or introduction, he 
can plunge at once. His want is 
r a work, not by any particular writer, 

but one in which he can meet with 
some of the best sayings of the best 
authors : of those who can paint the pas- 
sions of the human breast in prose or verse 
and of those who can, by a few touches of 
the pen, descriptively place a glowing scene 
before the reader's eyes; of the historian 
a]id the humourist ; of all, in short, of those 
whose writings bear the hall-mark of intrinsic 
merit, stamped by the gi-eat jury of the read- 
ing world. Such a work as this mil be placed 
before the reader ; a treasury, in fact, of pieces 
suitable for reading in pubHc, in private, on the 
platform, or in the easy chair; in silent com- 
muning with the author's thoughts, or to a listening 
circle at the fireside. 

In these days of multipHcity of publications, 
and ease of communication with goodly libraries, 
there should be no difficulty in at once finding 
sonxething to interest a public or private readei" 



or one who solely seeks instruction or amusement ; 
but, even with an infinity of books around, the 
would-be reader finds no little difficulty in selecting 
a short comprehensive extract, one that combine! 
the qualities of beginning and ending well, explain- 
ing itself, being free from errors of bad taste, and. 
above all, riveting the attention f*om first to last. 
Here, then, will be found what is justly looked 
upon as the very essence of our best writers, in 
selections suitable for a few minutes' reading, with 
their shorter pieces gathered from divers works, and 
linked together as a comprehensive whole. Well- 
known sketches that have become classic, and are 
as much favoured as our good old songs, are in- 
troduced ; but, in addition, pages have been taken 
from authors far less read, but whose works it is 
believed mil be found to possess the qualities so 
necessary here. Translations from some of the 
best Continental writers will be found side by side 
with the emanations from the minds of that Anglo- 
Saxon race across the Atlantic, whose writings 
need no translation : for the touchstone applied 
is to prove whether the extract be of genuine in- 
terest, and if so, its place will be within these pages. 
A reasonable balance has been preserved between 
prose and verse, the humorous, the pathetic, and 
those thrilling descriptive scenes in which so many 
of our writers excel. For the Editor's aim has 
been to produce such a work as will satisfy the 
most exacting. Whether to entertain others or 
for private reading, here is ample store— a book 
that will be always welcome, and reluctantly 
laid down. 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR. AUTHORS. 




MY CHILD-WIFE.* 

[From "David Copperfleld." By Chaeies Dickens.] 



SOMETIMES, of an evening, when I was 
at home and at work — for I wrote a 
good deal now, and was beginning in 
a small way to be known as a writer 
— I would lay down my pen, and 
watch my child- wife trying to be good. 
First of all, she would bring out the 
immense account-book, and lay it down 
upon the table, with a deep sigh. Then she would 
open it at the place where Jip had made it 
illegible last night, and call Jip up to look at 
his misdeeds. This would occasion a diversion in 
- Jip's favour, and some inking of his nose, perhaps, 
as a penalty. Then she would tell Jip to lie down 
on the table instantly, "like a lion" — which was 
one of his tricks, though I cannot say the likeness 
was striking — and, if he were in an obedient 
humour, he would obey. Then she would take up 
a pen, and begin to write, and find a hair in it. 
Then she would take up another pen, and begin to 
write, and find that it spluttered. Then she would 
take up another pen, and begin to write, and say 
in a low voice, " Oh, it's a talking pen, and will 
disturb Doady !" And then she would give it up 
as a bad job, and put the account book away, after 
pretending to crush the lion with it. 

Or, if she were in a very sedate and serious state 
of mind, she would sit down with the tablets, and 
a little basket of bills and other documents, which 
looked more like curl-papers than anything else, 
and endeavour to get some result out of them. 
After severely comparing one vfith another, and 
making entries on the tablets, and blotting them 
out, and counting all the fingers of her left hand 
over and over again, backwards and forwards, she 
would be so vexed and discouraged, and would 
look so unhappy, that it gave me pain to see her 
bright face clouded — and for me ! — and I would go 
.softly to her and say : 

"What's the matter, Dora 1" 
Dora would look up hopelessly, and reply, " They 
won't come right. They make my head ache so. 
And they won't do anything I want !" 

Then I would say, "Now, let us try together. 
.Let me show you, Dora." 

Then I would commence a practical demon- 
stration, to which Dora would pay profound atten- 
tion, perhaps for five minutes ; when she would 
begin to be dreadfully tired, ancl would lighten the 
subject by curling my hair, or trying the effect of 
my face -svith my shirt-collar turned down. If I 
tacitly checked this playfulness, and persisted, 
she would look so scared and disconsolate, as 
she became more and more bewildered, that the 



remembrance of her natural gaiety when I first 
strayed into her path, and of her being my child- 
wife, would come reproachfully upon me ; and I 
would lay the pencil down, and call for the guitar. 

When the debates were heavy — I mean as to 
length, not quality, for in the last respect they 
were not often otherwise — and I went home late, 
Dora would never rest when she heard my foot- 
steps, but would always come down stairs to meet 
me. When my evenings were unoccupied by the 
pursuit for which I had qualified myself with so 
much pains, and I was engaged in writing at home, 
she would sit quietly near me, however late the 
hour, and be so mute, that I would often think she 
had dropped asleep. But generally, when I raised 
my head, I saw her blue eyes looking at me with 
the quiet attention of which I have already 
spoken. 

" Oh, what a weary boy !" said Dora one night, 
when I met her eyes as I was shutting up my 
desk. 

"What a weary girl !" said I. "That's more to 
the purpose. You must go to bed another time, 
my love. It's far too late for you." 

"No, don't send me to bed!" pleaded Dora, 
coming to my side. " Pray don't do that ! " 
'' Dora ! " 

To my amazement she was sobbing on my 
neck. 

" Not well, my dear not happy !" 
" Yes ! quite well, and very happy !" said Dora. 
" But say you'll let me stop and see you write." 

" Why, what a sight for such bright eyes at mid- 
night ! " I replied. 

" Are they bright, though 1 " returned Dora, 
laughing. " I'm so glad they're bright." 
" Little Vanity ! " said I. 

But it was not vanity ; it was only harmless 
delight in my admiration. I knew that very well, 
before she told me so. 

" If you think them pretty, say I may always 
stop, and see you write ! " said Dora. " Do you 
think them pretty ?" 
" Very pretty." 

" Then let me always stop and see you write." 
" I am afraid that won't improve their bright- 
ness, Dora." 

" Yes it will ! Because, you clever boy, you'll 
not forget me then, while you are full of silent 
fancies. Will you mind it, if I say something 
very, very silly? — more than usual?" inquired 
Dora, peeping over my shoulder into my face. 
" What wonderful thing is that 1 " said L 



* By permission of Messrs. Chapman and Hall (Limited), 



MY CHILD-WIFK 



" Please let me hold the pens," said Dora. " I 
want to have something to do with aU those many- 
hours when you are so industrious. May I hold 
the pens?" 

The remembrance of her pretty joy when I said 
" Yes," brings tears into my eyes. The next time I 
sat down to write, and regularly afterwards, she 
sat in her old place, with a spare bundle of pens at 
her side. Her triumph in this connection with 
my work, and her deHght when I wanted a new 
pen — which I very often feigned to do — suggested 
to me a new way of pleasing my child-wife. I 
occasionally made a pretence of wanting a page or 
two of manuscript copied. Then Dora was in her 
glory. The preparations she made for this great 
work, the aprons she put on, the bibs she borrowed 
from the kitchen to keep off the ink, the time she 
took, the innumerable stoppages she made to have 
a laugh with Jip as if he understood it aU, her 
conviction that Jier work was incomplete unless 
she signed her name at the end, and the way in 
which she would bring it to me, like a school-copy, 
and then, when I praised it, clasp me round the 
neck, are touching recollections to me, simple as 
they might appear to other men. 

She took possession of the keys soon after this, 
and went jingUng about the house with the whole 
bunch in a little basket, tied to her slender waist. 
I seldom found that the places to which they 
belonged were locked, or that they were of any 
use except as a plaything for Jip — but Dora was 
pleased, and that pleased me. She was quite 
satisfied that a good deal was effected by this 
make-belief of house-keeping ; and was as merry 
as if we had been keeping a baby-house for a 
joke. 

******** 

All else grows dim, and fades away. I am again 
with Dora in our cottage. I do not know how 
long she has been ill. I am so used to it in feeling, 
that I cannot count the time. It is not really long, 
in weeks or months ; but in my usage and ex- 
perience, it is a weary, weary while. 

They have left off telling me to " wait a few 
days more." I have begun to fear, remotely, that 
the day may never shine when I shall see my child- 
wife running in the sunlight with her old friend 
Jip. 

He is, as it were, suddenly grown very old. It 
may be that he misses in his mistress something 
that enlivened him and made him younger ; but 
he mopes, and his sight is weak, and his limbs are 
feeble, and my aunt is sorry that he objects to her 
no more, but creeps near her as he lies on Dora's 
bed — she sitting at the bedside — and mildly licks 
her hand. 

Dora lies smiling on us, and is beautiful, and 
utters no hasty or complaining word. She says 
that we are very good to her ; that her dear old 



careful boy is tiring himself out, she knows ; that 
my aunt has no sleep, yet is always wakeful, active, 
and kind. Sometimes the little bird-like ladies 
come to see her ; and then we talk about our 
wedding-day, and aU that happy time. 

What a strange rest and pause in my life there 
seems to be— and in aU life, within doors and 
vrithout — when I sit in the quiet, shaded, orderly 
room, with the blue eyes of my child-wife turned 
towards me, and her little fingers twining round 
my hand ! Many and many an hour I sit thus ; 
but, of aU those times, three times come the 
freshest on my mind. 

It is morning ; and Dora, made so trim by my 
aunt's hands, shows nie how her pretty hair will 
curl upon the pillow yet, and how long and bright 
it is, and how she likes to have it loosely gathered, 
in that net she wears. 

" Not that I am vain of it, now, you mocking 
boy," she says, when I smile ; " but because you 
used to say you thought it so beautiful; and 
because, when I first began to think about you, I 
used to peep in the glass, and wonder whether 
you would like very much to have a lock of it. 
Oh, what a foolish fellow you were, Doady, when. 
I gave you one ! " 

" That was on the day when you were painting 
the flowers I had given you, Dora, and when I 
told you how much in love I was." 

"Ah !" but I didn't like to tell you," says Dora, 
" then, how I had cried over them, because I 
believed you really liked me ! When I can run 
about again as I used to do, Doady, let us go and 
see those places where we were such a silly couple, 
shall we ? And take some of the old walks 1 And 
not forget poor papa ?" 

" Yes, we will, and have some happy days. So- 
you must make haste to get well, my dear." 

" Oh, I shall soon do that ! I am so much better,, 
you don't know !" 

It is evening ; and I sit in the same chair, by 
the same bed, with the same face turned towards, 
me. We have been silent, and there is a smile 
upon her face. I have ceased to carry my light 
burden up and down stairs now. She lies here all 
the day. 

" Doady ! " 

" My dear Dora !" 

" You won't think what I am going to say, un- 
reasonable, after what you told me, such a little 
whUe ago, of Mr. Wickfield's not being well 1 I 
want to see Agnes. Very much I want to see- 
her." 

" I wiU write to her, my dear." 

"Will you?" 

" Directly." 

" What a good, kind boy ! Doady, take me on: 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



your arm. Indeed, my dear, it's not a whim. It's 
not a fooUsh fancy. I want, very mucii indeed, to 
see her." 

" I am certain of it. I have only to tell her so, 
and she is sure to come." 

" You are very lonely when you go down stairs 
now 1 " Dora whispers, with her arm about my neck. 

" How can I be otherwise, my own love, when I 
.see your empty chair V 

" My empty chair !" She clings to me for a 
little while in silence. " And you really miss me. 



" I won't, if I can help it, Doady. But I am 
very happy ; though my dear boy is so lonely by 
himself, before his child- wife's empty chair !" 

It is night ; and I am with her still. Agnes has 
arrived ; has been among us for a whole day and 
an evening. She, my aunt, and I, have sat with 
Dora since the morning, all together. We have 
not talked much, but Dora has been perfectly con- 
tented and cheerful. We are now alone. 

Do I know now that my child-wife will soon 




Mt Child-wife. {Draun &y F, Barnard.} 



Doady ? " looking up, and brightly smiling. " Even 
poor, giddy, stupid me V 

" My heart, who is there upon earth that I could 
miss so much ? " 

" Oh, husband ! I am so glad, yet so sorry !" 
creeping closer to me, and folding me in both her 
arms. She laughs and sobs, and then is quiet and 
quite happy. 

" Quite !" she says. " Only give Agnes my dear 
love, and tell her that I want very, very much to 
see her ; and I have nothing left to wish for." 

" Except to get well again, Dora." 

" Ah, Doady ! Sometimes I think — you know 
I always was a sUly little thing ! — that that wiU 
never be !" 

" Don't say so, Dora ! Dearest love, don't think 
sol" 



leave me ? They have told me so ; they have told 
me nothing new to my thoughts ; but I am far 
from sure that I have taken that truth to heart. 
I cannot master it. I have withdrawn by myself 
many times to-day to weep. I have remembered 
Who wept for a parting between the living and the 
dead. I have bethought me of all that gracious 
and compassionate history. I have tried to resign 
myself and to console myself ; and that, I hojie, I 
may have done imperfectly ; but what I cannot 
firmly settle in my mind is, that the end will 
absolutely come. I hold her hand in mine, I hold 
her heart in mine, I see her love for me, alive in 
all its strength. I cannot shut out a pale lingering 
shadow of belief that she will be spared. 

" I am going to speak to you, Doady. I am 
going to say something I have often thought of 



MY CHILD-WIFE. 



saying lately. You won't mind'?" ■with a gentle 
look. 

"Mind, my darling 1" 

" Because I don't know what you wOl think, or 
what you may have thought sometimes. Perhaps 
you have often thought the same. Doady, dear, I 
am afraid I was too young." 

I lay my face upon the pillow by her, and 
she looks into my eyes and speaks very softly. 
Gradually, as she goes on, I feel, with a stricken 
heart, that she is speaking of herself as past. 

" I am afraid, dear, I was too young. I don't 
mean in years only, but in experience, and thoughts, 
and everything. I was such a silly Uttle creature ! 
I am afraid it would have been better if we had 
only loved each other as a boy and girl and for- 
gotten it. I have begun to think I was not fit to 
be a wife." 

I try to stay my tears and to reply, " Oh, Dora, 
love, as fit as I to be a husband !" 

" I don't know," with the old shake of her curls. 
"Perhaps !" But if I had been more fit to be 
married, I might have made you more so, too. 
Besides, you are very clever, and I never was." 

" We have been very happy, my sweet Dora." 

" I was very happy, very. But, as years went on, 
my dear boy would have wearied of his chUd-wife. 
;She would have been less and less a companion for 
him. He would have been more and more sensible 
of what was wanting in his home. She wouldn't 
liave improved. It is better as it is." 

" Oh, Dora, dearest, dearest, do not speak to 
me so. Every word seems a reproach !" 

"No, not a syllable !" she answers, kissing me. 
■" Oh, my dear, you never deserved it, and I loved 
you far too well to say a reproachful word to you 
in earnest — it was all the merit I had except being 
pretty — or you thought me so. Is it lonely down 
stairs, Doady]" 

"Very ! very !" 

" Don't cry ! Is my chair there ? " 

"In its old place." 

" Oh, how my poor boy cries ! Hush, hush ! 
N^ow, make me one promise. I want to speak to 
Agnes. When you go down stairs tell Agnes so, 
and send her up to me ; and whUe I speak to her 
let no one come — ^not even aunt. I want to speak 
to Agnes by herself. I want to speak to Agnes 
quite alone." 



I promise that she shall, immediately; but I 
cannot leave her, for my grief. 

"I said that it was better as it is !" she whispers, 
as she holds me in her arms. " Oh, Doady, after 
more years you never could have loved your child- 
wife better than you do ; and, after more years, 
she would so have tried and disappointed you, that 
you might not have been able to love her half so 
well ! I know I was too young and foolish. It is 
much better as it is !" 

Agnes is down stairs when I go into the parlour ; 
and I give her the message. She disappears, 
leaving me alone with Jip. 

His Chinese house is by the fire ; and he lies 
within it, on his bed of flannel, querulously trying 
to sleep. The bright moon is high and clear. As 
I look out on the night my tears fall fast, and my 
undisciplined heart is chastened heavily^heavily. 

I sit down by the fire, thinking with a blind 
remorse of all those secret feelings 1 have nourished 
since my marriage. I think of every little trifle 
between me and Dora, and feel the truth, that 
trifles make the sum of life. Ever rising from the 
sea of my remembrance is the image of the dear 
child as I knew her first, graced by my young love 
and by her own with every fascination wherein 
such love is rich. Would it, indeed, have been 
better if we had loved each other as a boy and 
girl and forgotten it 1 Undisciplined heart, reply! 

How the time wears I know not ; until I am 
recalled by my child- wife's old companion. More 
restless than he was, he crawls out of his house, 
and looks at me, and wanders to the door, and 
whines to go up stairs. 

"Not to-night, Jip ! Not to-night !" 

He comes very slowly back to me, licks my hand 
and lifts his dim eyes to my face. 

" Oh, Jip ! It may be never again !" 

He lies down at my feet, stretches himself out 
as if to sleep, and with a plaintive cry is dead. 

" Oh, Agnes ! Look, look, here !" 

— That face, so full of pity, and of grief, that 
I rain of tears, that awful mute appeal to me, that 
solemn hand upraised towards heaven ! 

" Agnes !" 

It is over. Darkness comes before my eyes ; 
and, for a time, aU things are blotted out of my 
I remembrance. 




GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



BRET HARTE IN VERSE. 

Wl^ RET HAETE, the American humourist, is generally known to us by his intensely dramatic 
jE) prose sketches, and his ingeniously satirical or political poem, " That Heathen Chinee." He 
^^ has, however, at various times written poems of an intense and stirring dramatic nature, 
which are at the same time pecuUar from their being given in the rough dialect of the Far West. 
For instance, we have his rugged story of the miner, whom a wild life had made coarse and almost 
brutal, showing the tender side of his wild nature as he comes to a drinking-shed in search of his 
old companion " Jim " :- 



Say there ! P'r'aps 
Some on you chaps 

Might know Jim Wild ? 
Well, — no offence : 
Thar ain't no sense 

In gittin' riled ! 

Jim was my chum 

Up on the Bar : 
That's why I come 

Down from up yar, 
Looldu' for Jim. 
Thank ye, sir ! You 
Ain't of that crew, — 

Blest if you are ! 

Money ? — Not much : 
That ain't my kind : 

I ain't no such. 
Rum ? — I don't mind, 

Seein' it's you. 

Well, this yer Jim, 
Did you know him ? 
Jess 'bout your si^e ; 
Same kind of eyes 1 — 
AVell, that is strange : 
Why, it's two year 
Since he came here. 
Sick, for a change. 

Well, here's to us : 
Eh? 
you say ! 











Dead ?— 
That little cuss? 

A^Tiat makes you star,— 
You over tliar ? 
Can't a man drop 
's glass in yer shop 
But you must rar ? 
It wouldn't take 

much to break 

You and yoiu- bar. 



Poor — little — Jim ! 
— Why, thar was me, 
Jones, and Bob Lee, 
Harry and Ben, — 
No-account men : 
Then to take him ! 

Well, thar— Good-bve, - 
No more, sii', — I— 

Eh? 
What's that you say ? — 
Why, dern it ! — sho ! — 
No : Yes ! By Jo ! 

Sold! 
Sold ! '\Vhy, you limb, 
You ornery, 

Derned old 
Long-legged Jim ! 



Just sucli anotlier rugged specimen of true human nature done into verse is the story of the 
hero who gave his life to save his partner in the mine : — 



Didn't know Flynn, — 
Flynn, of Virginia, — 
Long as he's been 'y^^ ? 
Look'ee here, sti-anger, 
Whar hcv you been ? 

Here in this tunnel 
He was my pardner. 

That same Tom Flynn, — 
Working together, 
Li wind and weather. 

Day out and in. 

Didn't know Flynn ! 

Well, that u queer ; 
AVhy, it's a sin, — 
To think of Tom Flynn,— 



Tom with bis cheer, 
Tom without fear,— 
Stranger, look 'yar ! 

Thar in the drift, 

Back to the wail, 
He held the timbers 

Beady to fall ; 

Then in the darkness 
I heard him call : 

** Run for your life, Jake ! 
Run for yoiir wife's sake ! 
Don't wait for me." 

And that was all 

Heard in the din, 
Heard of Tom Flynn, — 

Flynn of Virginia. 



Tliat's all about 
Flynn of Virginia. 

That lets me out. 
Here in the damp, — 

Out of the sun, — 
That 'ar derned lamp 
Makes my eyes run. 

WeU, there, — I'm done ! 



But, sir, when youll 

Hear the next fool 
Asking of Flynn, — 

Flynn of Virginia, — 
Just you chip in. 
Say you knew Flynn ; 

Say that you've been 'yar 



BRET HARTE IN VERSE. 



But Bret Harte can cast aside the stylus which marks so roughly that it might be the miner's crow- 
bar dipped in ink, and taking up the poet's pen write simply, fluently, and with rhythmical measure. His 
verses want, perhaps, the rich imagery of the great poet, but he has that natural gift that enables him 
to enlist the reader's sympathy on the instant, touching the tenderest heart-chords, yet, withal, stirring 
them so gently that the touch is imperceptible. Poem after poem might be taken displaying this one 
touch of nature that makes the whole world kin ; but as examples of his style alone are needed, the 
selection is first made up, and that appeals right to the heart of those who have treasured children of 
their own — tenfold to those who think of " the voice of the children gone before." There is always some- 
thing especially attractive in an old chronicle of some mishap, and Bret Harte is probably at his 
best when he tells in simple verses the pathetic Legend of Greyport and the children lost at sea : — 



Thet ran through the streets of the seaport town ; 

They peered from the decks of the ships that lay : 

The cold sea-fog that came whitening down 

"Was never as cold or white as they. 

" Ho, Starbuck, and Pickney and Tenterden j 
Run for yoiu- shallops, gather your men, 
Scatter your boats on the lower bay." 

■Good cause for fear ! In the thick midday 
The hulk that lay by the rotting pier, 
Filled with the children in happy play. 
Parted its moorings, and drifted clear, — 
Drifted clear beyond reach or call, — 
Thirteen children they were in all, — 
AU adrift in the lower bay ! 

Said a hard-faced skipper, " God help us all ! 

She will not floit till the turning tide ! " 

Said his wife, ' ' My darling will hear mi/ call, 

Whether in sea or heaven she bide : " 

And she lifted a quavering voice and high, 
Wild and strange as the sea-bird's cry. 
Till they shuddered and wondered at her side. 



The fog drove down on each labouring crew. 
Veiled each from each and the sky and shore : 
There was not a sound but the breath they drew, 
And the lap of water and creak of oar ; 

And they felt the breath of the downs, fresh blown 
O'er leagues of clover and cold gray stone, 
But not from the lips that had gone before. 

They come no more. But they tell the tale, 
Th.it, when fogs are thick on the harbour reef, 
The mackerel fishers shorten sail ; 
For the signal they know will bring relief : 

For the voices of children, still at play 

In a phantom hulk that drifts alway 
Through channels whose waters never fail. 

It is but a foolish shipman's tale, 

A theme for a poet's idle page ; 

But still, when the mists of doubt prevail, 

And we lie becalmed by the shores of Age, 

We hear from the misty troubled shore 

The voice of the children gone before. 
Drawing the soul to its anchorage. 




Lastly, there is a very short poem, so full of 
yet so full of pathos, that even were its subject other 
•every English breast. 

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, 

The river sang below ; 
The dim Sierras, far beyond, ui^lifting 

Their minarets of snow : 

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humour, painted 

The ruddy tints of health 
On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted 

In the fierce race for wealth ; 

Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure 

A hoarded volume drew, 
And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure 

To hear the tale anew ; 

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster. 
And as the firelight fell, 



simple inspiration, so wildly picturesque, and 
than it is Bret Harte would be stamped poet in 

He read aloud the book wherein the Master 
Had writ of " Little Nell." 

Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy— for the reader 

"Was youngest of them all — 
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar 

A silence seemed to fall ; 

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows. 

Listened in every spray, 
"WTiile the whole camp, with "Nell" on English 
meadows 

Wandered and lost their way. 

And so in mountain solitudes— o'ertaken 

As by some spell divine — 
Their cares dropped from them like the needles sliaken 

From out the gusty jjine. 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



Lost is that camiJ, and wasted all its fire ; 

And lie wlio wrougkt that spell ? — 
Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire. 

Ye have one tale to tell ! 

Lost is that camp ! but let its fragrant story 
Blend with the breath that thrills, 



With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory 
That fills the Kentish hills. 

And on that grave where English oak, and holly^ 

And laurel wreaths entwine. 
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly — 

This spray of Western pine ! 




DicKEHS s Grave 



A SPOILT BOY. 




[From " Mr. Midshipman Easy. 



TAVE you no idea of putting the boy 
to school, Mrs. Easy?" said Dr. 
j\Iiddleton, who had been sum- 
moned by a groom with his horse in 
a foam to attend immediately at 
rest Hill — the name of Mr. Easy's 
mansion— and who, upon his arrival, had 
found that Master Easy had cut his thumb. 
One would have thought that he had cut his head 
off by the agitation pei-vading the whole household 
— Mr. Easy walking up and down very uneasy, 
Mrs. Easy with great difficulty prevented from 
syncope, and all the maids bustling and passing 
round Mrs. Eas/s chair. Everybody appeared 
excited except Master Jack Ea.sy himself, who, 
with a rag round his finger, and his pinafore 
spotted with blood, was playing at bob-cherry, 
and cared nothing about the matter. 

" Well, what's the matter, my little man 1 " said 
Dr. Middleton, on entering, addressing himself to 
Jack, as the most .sensible of the whole party. 

" Oh, Dr. Middleton," interrupted Mrs. Easy, 
" he has cut his hand ! I am sure that a nerve is 

divided, and then the lockjaw " 

The doctor made no reply, but examined the 
finger ; Jack Easy continued to play bob-cheriy 
with his right hand. 

" Have you such a thing as a piece of sticking- 
plaster in the house, madam?" observed the doctor, 
after examination. 

" Oh yes !— run Mary — run Sarah ! In a few 
seconds the maids appeared, Sarah bringing the 



By Captain Marryat.] 

sticking-plaster, and Mary following with the' 
scissors. 

" Make yourself quite easy, madam," said Dr. 
Middleton, after he put on the plaster. " I will 
answer for no evil consequences." 

" Had I not better take him upstairs, and let 
him lie down a little 1" replied Mrs. Easy, slipping 
a guinea into the doctor's hand. 

" It is not absolutely requisite, madam," said 
the doctor ; " but at all events he will be kept out 
of more mischief." 

" Come, my dear, you hear what Dr. Middleton 
says." 

" Yes, I heard," replied Jack ; " but I shan't 
go." 

" My dear Johnny — come, love — now do, my 
dear Johnny." 

Johnny played bob-cherry, and made no answer, 

" Come, Master Johnny," said Sarah. 

" Go away, Sarah," said Johnny, with a back- 
hander. 

" Oh ! fie, Master Johnny," said Mary. 

" Johnny, my love," said Mrs. Easy, in a coaxing 
tone, " come now — will you go 1" 

" I'll go in the garden, and get some more 
cherries," replied Master Johnny. 

" Come, then, love, we will go into the garden." 

Master Johnny jumped off his chair, and took 
his mamma by the hand. 

" Wliat a dear, good, obedient child it is ! " ex- 
claimed Mrs. Easy : " You may lead him with a 
thread." 



A SPOILT BOY. 



" Yes, to pick cherries," thought Dr. Middleton. 
****** 

Mr. Easy announced to his wife, when they met 
that day at tea-time, his intentions with regard to 
his son John. 

" To school, Mr. Easy 1 what, send Johnny to 
school ! a mere infant to school !" 

" Surely, my dear, you must be aware 
that at nine years it is high time that he 
learnt to read." 

"Why, he almost reads already, Mr. 
Easy ; surely I can teach him that. Does 
he not, Sarah t " 

" Lord bless him, yes, ma'am ; he was 
saying his letters yesterday." 

" Oh, Mr. Easy, what can have put this 
in your head 1 Johnny, dear, come here — 
tell me now what's the letter A ? You 
were singing it in the garden this morn- 
ing." 

"I want some sugar," replied Johnny, 
stretching his arm over the table to the 
sugar-basin, which was out of his 
reach. 

" Well, my love, you shall have a great 
lump if you will tell me what's the letter 
A." 

"A was an archer, and shot at a frog," 
replied Johnny in a surly tone. 

" There now, Mr. Easy ; and he can go through 
the whole alphabet — can't he, Sarah'!" 

" That he can, the dear — can't you, Johnny dear T 

"No," replied Johnny. 

"Yes, you can, my love, you know what's the 
letter B. Now don't you '" 

" Yes," replied Johnny. 

" There, Mr. Easy, you see what the boy knows, 
and how obedient ho is too. Come, Johnny, dear, 
tell us what was B." 

" No, I won't," replied Johnny. " I want some 
more sugar ;" and Johnny, who had climbed on a 
chair, spread himself over the table to reach it. 

" Mercy ! Sarah, pull him off— he'll upset the 
urn," screamed Mrs. Easy. Sarah caught hold of 
Johnny by the loins to pull back, but Johnny, 
resisting the interference, turned round on his 
back as he lay on the table, and kicked Sarah in 
the face, just as she made another desperate grasp 
at him. The rebound from the kick, given as he 
lay on a smooth mahogany table, brought Johnny's 
head in contact wth the urn, which was upset in 
the opposite direction, and, not-ndthstanding a 
rapid movement on the part of Mr. Easy, he 
received a sufficient portion of boiling liquid on 
his legs to scald him severely, and induce him to 
stamp and swear in a veiy unphilosophical way, In 
the meantime Sarah and Mrs. Easy had caught up 
Johnny, and were both holding him at the same 
time, exclaiming and lamenting. The pain of the 



scald, and the indifference shown towards liirn, 
were too much for Mr. Easy's temper to put up 
with. He snatched Johnny out of their arms, 
and, quite forgetting his equality and rights of 
man, belaboured him without mercy. Sarah flew 
in to interfere, and received a blow which not 
only made her see a thousand stars, but sent her 




reeling on the floor. Mrs. Easy went off intc? 
hysterics, and Johnny howled so as to be heard 
at a quarter of a mUe. 

How long Mr. Easy would have continued it is 
impossible to say ; but the door opened, and Mr. 
Easy looked up while still administering the 
punishment, and perceived Dr. Middleton in mute 
astonishment. He had promised to come in to tea, 
and enforce Mr. Easy's arg-uments, if it were neces- 
sary ; but it certainly appeared to him, that in the 
argument which Mr. Easy was then enforcing, he 
required no assistance. However, at the entrance 
of Dr. Middleton, Johnny was dropped, and lay 
roaring on the floor ; Sarah too remained where 
she had been floored. Mrs. Easy had rolled on. 
the floor, the urn was also on the floor, and Mr, 
Easy, although not floored, had not a leg to stand 
upon. 

Never did a medical man look in more oppor- 
tunely. Mr. Easy at first was not certainly of that 
opinion, but his legs became so painful that he 
soon became a convert. 

Dr. Middleton, as in duty bound, first picked 
up Mrs. Easy, and laid her on the sofa. Sarah 
rose, picked up Johnny, and carried him kicking 
and roaring out of the room ; in return for which 
attention she received sundry bites. The foot- 
man, who had announced the doctor, picked up 
the urn, that being all there was in his department. 
I Mr. Easy threw himself panting and in agony on 



10 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



the other sofa, and Dr. Middleton was excessively 
embarrassed how to act; he perceived that Mr. 
Easy required his assistance, and that Mrs. Easy 
could do without it ; but how to leave a lady who 
was half really and half pretendedly in hysterics, 
was difficult ; for if he attempted to leave her she 
kicked and flounced, and burst out the more. At 
last Dr. Middleton rang the bell, which brought 
the footman, who summoned all the maids, who 
carried Mrs. Easy up-stairs, and then the doctor 
was able to attend to the only patient who really 
required his assistance. Mr. Easy explained the 
affair in few words, broken into ejaculations from 
pain, as the doctor removed his stockings. From 
the applications of Dr. Middleton, Mr. Easy soon 
obtained bodUy relief ; but what annoyed him still 
more than his scalded legs, was the doctor having 
been a witness to his infringement of the equality 
and rights of man. Dr. Middleton perceived this, 
and he knew also how to pour balm into that 
wound. 

"My dear Mr. Easy, I am very sorry that you 
have had this accident, for which you are indebted 
to Mrs. Easy's foolish indulgence of the boy, but I 
am glad to perceive that you have taken up those 
parental duties which are inculcated by the Scrip- 
tures. Solomon says, ' that he who spares the 
rod, spoils the child,' thereby implying that it is 
the duty of a father to correct his children." 
****** 
" That is exactly my opinion," replied Mr. Easy, 
comforted at the doctor having so logically got 
him out of the scrape. " But — he shall go to school 
to-morrow, that I'm determined on." 

" He will have to thank Mrs. Easy for that," 
replied the doctor. 

" Exactly," replied Mr. Easy. " Doctor, my legs 
are getting very hot again." 

" Continue to bathe them with the vinegar and 
water, Mr. Easy, until I send you an embro- 
cation, which will give you immediate relief. I 
will call to-morrow. By-the-bye, I am to see 
a little patient at Mr. Bonnycastle's ; if it is 
any accommodation, I will take your son with 
me." 

" It will be a great accommodation, doctor," re- 
plied Mr. Easy. 

" Then, my dear sir, I will just go up and see 
how Mrs. Easy is, and to-morrow I vsdll call at ten. 
I can wait an hour. Good-night." 
"Good-night, doctor." 

The doctor had his game to play with Mrs. Easy. 
He magnified her husband's accident — he magni- 
fied his wrath, and advised her by no means to 
say one word until he was well, and more pacified. 
The next day he repeated this dose, and, in spite 
of the ejaculations of Sarah, and the tears of Mrs. 
Easy, who dared not venture to plead her cause, 
and the violent resistance of Master Johnny, who 



appeared to have a presentiment of what was to 
come, our hero was put into Dr. Middleton's 
chariot, and with the exception of one plate of 
glass which he kicked out of the window with his 
feet, and for which feat the doctor, now that he 
had him all to himself, boxed his ears till he was 
nearly blind, he was, withoiit any further eventful 
occurrence, carried by the doctor's footman into 
the parlour of Mr. Bonnycastle. 

Master Jack had been plumped down in a chair 
by the doctor's servant, who, as he quitted him, 
first looked at his own hands, from which the 
blood was drawn in several parts, and then at 
Master Jack, with his teeth closed and lips com- 
pressed, as much as to say, " If I only dared, would 
not I, that's all 1 " and then walked out of the room, 
repaired to the carriage at the front door, when he 
showed his hands to the coachman, who looked 
down from his box in great commiseration, at the 
same time fully sharing his fellow-servant's indig- 
nation. But we must repair to the parlour. Dr. 
Middleton ran over a newspaper, while Johnny 
sat on the chair all of a heap, looking like a lump 
of sulks, with his feet on the upper front bar, and 
his knees almost up to liis nose. He was a 
promising pupil, Jack. 

Mr. Bonnycastle made his appearance — a tall, 
well-built, handsome fair man, with a fine 
powdered head, dressed in solemn black, and 
knee-buckles ; his linen beautifully clean; and 
with a peculiar bland expression of countenance. 
****** 

Dr. Middleton, who was on intimate terms with 
Bonnycastle, rose as he entered the room, and they 
shook hands. Middleton then turned to where 
Jack sat, and pointing to him, said, " Look there." 

Bonnycastle .smiled. " I cannot say that I have 
had worse, but I have almost as bad. I will 
apply the Promethean torch, and soon vivify that 
rude mass. Come, sit down, !Middleton." 

"But," said the doctor, as he resumed his chair, 
"tell me, Bonnycastle, how you will possibly 
manage to lick such a cub into shape, when you 
do not resort to flogging 1 " 

"I have no opinion of flogging, and therefore I 
do not resort to it. The fact is, I was at Harrow 
myself, and was rather a pickle. I was called up 
as often as most boys in the school, and I perfectly 
recollect, that eventually I cared nothing for a 
flogging." 

"I should have thought otherwise." 

" My dear Middleton, I can produce more eflfect 
by one caning than twenty floggings. 

****** 

"My dear sir, I really had an idea that you were 
excessively lenient," replied Middleton, laughing ; 
" I am glad that I am under a mistake." 

" Look at that cub, doctor, sitting there more 
like a brute than a reasonable being; do you 



A SPOILT BOY. 



n 



imagine that I could ever lick it into shape with- 
out strong measures 1 " 

Dr. Middleton wished Jack good-bye, and told 
liim to be a good boy. Jack did not vouchsafe to 
answer. " Never mind, doctor ; he will be more 
polished next time you call here, depend upon it." 
And the doctor departed. 

Although Mr. Bonnyoastle was severe, he was 
very judicious. Mischief of all kinds was visited 
but by slender punishment, such as being kept in 
at play hours, &c. ; and he seldom interfered 
with the boys for fighting, although he checked 
decided oppression. The great sine qud non with 
him was attention to their studies. He soon 
discovered the capabilities of his pupils, and 
he forced them accordingly ; but the idle 
boy, the bird who " could sing and wouldn't 
sing," received no mercy. The consequence 
was, that he turned out the cleverest boys, 
and his conduct was so uniform and un- 
varying in its tenor, that if he was feared 
when they were under his control, he was 
invariably liked by those whom he had 
instructed, and they continued his friends 
in after life. 

Mr. Bonnycastle at once perceived that 
it was no use coaxing our hero, and that 
fear was the only attribute by which he 
could be controlled. So, as soon as Dr. 
Middleton had quitted the room, he ad- 
dressed him in a commanding tone, " Now, 
boy, what is your name 1 " 

Jack started ; he looked up at his master, 
perceived his eye fixed upon him, and a 
countenance not to be played with. Jack 
was no fool, and somehow or other, the 
discipline he had received from his father 
had given him some intimation of what was to 
come. All this put together, induced Jack to con- 
descend to answer, mth his fore-finger between 
his teeth, "Johnny." 

" And what is your other name, sir 1 " 

Jack, who appeared to repent his condescension, 
did not at first answer ; but he looked again in Mr. 
Bonnycastle's face, and then round the room ; 
there was no one to help him, and he could not 
help himself, so he replied, " Easy." 

" Do you know why you are sent to school 1 " 

" Scalding father." 

" No ; you are sent to learn to read and 
write." 

"But I won't read and write," replied Jack, 
sulkily. 

" Yes, you will ; and you are going to read your 
letters now directly." 

Jack made no answer. Mr. Bonnycastle opened 
a sort of book-case, and displayed to John's 
astonished view a series of canes, ranged up and 



down like billiard cues, and continued, " Do you 
know what those are for 1 " 

Jack eyed them wistfully; he had some faint 
idea that he was sure to be better acquainted with 
them, but he made no answer. 

" They are to teach little boys to read and write, 
and now I am going to teach you. You'll soon 
learn. Look now here," continued Mr. Bonny- 
castle, opening a book with large type, and taking 
a capital at the head of a chapter, about half an 
inch long. " Do you see that letter 1 " 

" Yes," replied Johnny, turning his eyes away, 
and picking his fingers. 

" Well, that is the letter B. Do you see it ? 




Mr. Bonnycastle and Jack. 

Look at it so that you may know it again. That's 
the letter B. Now tell me what letter that is 1 " 

Jack now determined to resist, so he made no 
answer. 

" So you cannot tell ; well, then, we will try 
what one of these little fellows will do," said Mr. 
Bonnycastle, taking down a cane. 

" Observe, Johnny, that's the letter B. Now, 
what letter is that 1 Answer me directly." 

" I won't learn to read and write." 

Whack came the cane on Johnny's shoulders, 
who burst out into a roar as he writhed with 
pain. 

Mr. Bonnycastle waited a few seconds. "That's 
the letter B. Now tell me, sir, directly, what that 
letter is r' 

" I'll tell my mar." Whack ! " law ! law ! " 

" What letter's that ] " 

Johnny, with his mouth open, panting, and the 
tears on his ch eks, answered indignantly : " Stop 
till I tell Sarah." 



12 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



Whack came the cane again, and a fresh burst 
from Johnny. 

" What letter's that ? " 

"I won't tell," roared Johnny ; "I won't tell- 
that I won't." 

Whack — whack— whack, and a pause. " I told 
you before, that's the letter B. What letter is 
that 1 Tell me directly." 

Johnny, by way of reply, made a snatch at the 
cane. Whack ! he caught it certainly ; but not 
exactly as he would have wished. Johnny then 
snatched up the book, and dashed it to the corner 
of the room. Whack, whack ! Johnny attempted 
to seize Mr. Bonnycastle with his teeth. Whack, 
whack, whack, whack ! and Johnny fell on the 
carpet, and roared with pain. Mr. Bonnycastle 
then left him for a little while, to recover himself, 
and sat down. 

At last Johnny's exclamations settled down in 
deep sobs, and then Mr. Bonnycastle said to him, 
" Now, Johnny, you perceive that you must do as 
you are bid, or else you will have more beating. 
Get up immediately. Do you hear, sir?" 



Somehow or other, Johnny, without intenmng 
it, stood upon his feet. 

"That's a good boy ; now you see, by getting up 
as you were bid, you have not been beaten. Now, 
Johnny, you must go and bring the book from 
where you threw it down. Do you hear, sir? 
bring it directly ! " 

Johnny looked at Mr. Bonnycastle and the 
cane. With every intention to refuse, Johnny 
picked up the book and laid it on the table. 

" That's a good boy ; now we will find the letter 
B. Here it is ; now, Johnny, tell me what that 
letter is 1 " 

Johnny made no answer. 

"Tell me directly, sir," said Mr. Bonnycastle, 
raising his cane up in the air. The appeal was 
too powerful. Johnny eyed the cane ; it moved, 
it was coming. Breathlessly he shrieked out, 
"B !" 

"Very well indeed, Johnny — very well. Now 
your first lesson is over, and you shall go to bed. 
You have learnt more than you think for. To- 
morrow we will begin again." 



PAUL EEVEEE'S EIDE. 







■'.'*'*V' 

I II *i»iiir ifi "If *■ ■" 



\ ISTEN, my children, and you shall hear 
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy 
five ; 
Hardly a man is now alive 
Who remembers that famous day and year. 
He said to his friend, " If the British march 
By land or sea from the town to-night, 
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch 



[Longfellow. ] 

Of the North Church tower as a signal light, — 
One if by land, and two if by sea ; 
And I on the opposite shore will be, 
Ready to ride and spread the alarm 
Through every Middlesex village and farm, 
For the country-folk to be up and to arm." 
Then he said, " Good night ! " and with muffled 

oar 
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, 
Just as the moon rose over the bay. 
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 
The Somerset, British man-of-war ; 
A phantom-ship, with each mast and spar 
Across the moon like a prison bar. 
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified 
By its own reflection in the tide. 
Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, 
Wanders and watches with eager ears, 
Till in the silence around him he hears 
The muster of men at the barrack-door. 
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, 
And the measured tread of the grenadiers, 
Marching down to their boats on the shore. 
Then he climbed to the tower of the church, 
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, 
To the belfry-chamber overhead, 
And startled the pigeons from their perch 
On the sombre rafters, that round him made 



PAUL EEVERE'S RIDE. 



13 



Masses and moving shapes of shade, — 
Up the trembling ladder, steep and tall, 
To the highest window in the wall. 
Where he paused to listen and look down 
A moment on the roofs of the town, 
And the moonlight flowing over all. 
Beneath, in the chm'chyard, lay the dead, 
In their night-encampment on the hill, 
Wrapped in silence so deep and stiU 
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, 
The watchful night-wind, as it went 



Now gazed at the landscape far and near. 
Then, impetuous stamped the earth. 
And turned and tightened the saddle-girth ; 
But mostly he watched with eager search 
The belfry tower of the Old North Church, 
As it rose above the graves on the hill. 
Lonely and spectral and sombre and stOl. 
And lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's height 
A glimmer, and then a gleam of Hght ! 
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns", 
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 




'He paused to listen.'' {Drawn hy G. C. Hindley.) 



Creeping along from tent to tent, 

And seeming to whisper, "All is well !" 

A moment only he feels the spell 

Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread 

Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; 

Eor suddenly all his thoughts were bent 

On a shadowy something far away. 

Where the river widens to meet the bay, — 

A line of black that bends and floats 

On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 

^Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, 

Pooted and spurred, with a heavy stride, 

On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. 

Now he patted his horse's side, 



A second lamp in the belfry burns ! 

A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, 

And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a 

spark 
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet ; 
That was all ! And yet through the gloom and 

the light. 
The fate of a nation was riding that night ; 
And the spark struck out by that steed in his 



Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 
He has left the village and mounted the steep, 
And beneath him, tmnquil and broad and deep. 



14 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides ; 
And under the alders, that skirt its edge, 
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge. 
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. 
It was twelve by the village clock, 
When he crossed the bridge into Medford 

town. 
He heard the crowing of the cock. 
And the barliing of the farmer's dog, 
And felt the damp of the river fog. 
That rises after the sun goes down. 
It was one by the village clock 
When he galloped into Lexington. 
He saw the gilded weathercock 
Swim in the moonlight as he passed. 
And the meeting-house windows, blank and 

bare. 
Gaze at him with a spectral glare, 
As if they already stood aghast 
At the bloody work they would look upon. 
It was two by the village clock. 
When he came to the bridge in Concord town. 
He heard the bleating of the flock. 
And the twitter of birds among the trees. 
And felt the breath of the morning breeze 
Blowing ovor the meadows brown. 



And one was safe and asleep in his bed 
Who at the bridge would be first to fall, 
Who that day would be lying dead, 
Pierced by a British musket-balL 

You know the rest. In the books you have 

read. 
How the British Regulars fired and fled, — 
How the farmers gave them ball for ball, 
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall. 
Chasing the red-coats down the lane. 
Then crossing the fields to emerge again 
Under the trees at the turn of the road, 
And only pausing to fire and load. 
So through the night rode Paul Revere : 
And so through the night went his cry of alaria. 
To every Middlesex village and farm, 
A cry of defiance and not of fear, 
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, 
And a word that shall echo for evermore ! 
For borne on the night- wind of the Past, 
Through all our history, to the last, 
In the hour of darkness and peril and need. 
The people will waken and listen to hear 
The hurrying hoof -beats of that steed. 
And the midnight message of Paul Revere. 




A HIGHLAND FEUD. 

[Prom " The Fair Maid of Perth." By SiE Waltek Scoti.J 



IfOTH parties were disposed by the re- 
1 spective Chiefs in three lines, each 
^ containing ten men. They were ar- 
such intervals between 
as offered him scope to 



'>S- ranged with 

each individual. 



wield his sword, the blade of which was 
five feet long, not including the handle. 
The second and third lines were to come 
up as reserves, in case the first experienced 
disaster. On the right of the array of Clan 
Quhele, the Chief, Eachin Maclan, placed him- 
self in the second line betwixt two of his foster- 
brothers. Four of them occupied the right of the 
first line, whilst the father and two others protected 
the rear of the beloved chieftain. Torquil, in 
particular, kept close behind, for the purpose of 
covering him. Thus Eachin stood in the centi e of 
nine of the strongest men of his band, having four 
especial defenders in front, one on each hand, and 
three in his rear. 

The line of the Clan Chattan was arranged in 
precisely the same order, only that the Chief occu- 
pied the centre of the middle rank, instead of being 
on the extreme right. This induced Henry Smith, 
who saw in the opposing bands only one enemy, 



! and that was the unhappy Eachin, to propose- 
placing himself on the left of the front rank of the- 
Clan Chattan. But the leader disapproved of this, 
arrangement ; and having reminded Henry that he- 
owed him obedience, as having taken wages at his 
hand, he commanded him to occupy the space in 
the third line, immediately behind himself — a post 
of honour, certainly, which Henry could not de- 
cline, though he accepted of it with reluctance. 

When the clans were thus drawn up opposed to> 
each other, they intimated their feudal animosity, 
and their eagerness to engage, by a wild scream, 
which, uttered by the Clan Quhele, was answered 
and echoed back by the Clan Chattan, the whole at 
the same time shaking their swords, and menacing 
each other as if they meant to conquer the imagi- 
nation of their opponents ere they mingled in the 
actual strife. 



The trumpets of the King sounded a charge, the- 
bagpipes blew up their screaming and maddening 
notes, and the combatants, starting forward in 
regular order, and increasing their pace till they 
came to a smart run, met together in the centre of 



A HIGHLAND FEUD. 



15 



the ground, as a furious land torrent encounters an 
advancing tide. 

For an instant or two the front lines, hewing at 
•each other with their long swords, seemed engaged 
in a succession of single combats ; but the second 
and third ranks soon came up on either side, 
actuated alike by the eagerness of hatred and the 
thirst of honour, pressed through the intervals, and 
rendered the scene a tumultuous chaos, over which 
the huge swords rose and sank, some still glittering, 
others streaming with blood, appearing, from the 
-wild rapidity with which they were swayed, rather 
to be put in motion by some complicated machinery 
than to be wielded by human hands. Some of the 
combatants, too much crowded together to use 
those long weapons, had already betaken themselves 
to their poniards, and endeavoured to get within 
the sword-sweep of those opposed to them. In the 
meantime, blood flowed fast, and the groans of 
those who feU began to mingle with the cries of 
those who fought ; for, according to the manner of 
the Highlanders at all times, they could hardly be 
said to shout, but to yell. Those of the spectators 
whose eyes were best accu.stomed to such scenes of 
blood and confusion, could nevertheless discover 
no advantage yet acquired by either party. The 
conflict swayed, indeed, at different intervals for- 
wards or backwards ; but it was only in momentary 
superiority, which the party who acquired it almost 
instantly lost by a corresponding exertion on the 
other side. The wild notes of the pipers were still 
heard above the tumult, and stimulated to farther 
exertions the fury of the combatants. 

At once, however, and as if by mutual agree- 
ment, the instruments sounded a retreat ; it was 
expressed in wailing notes, which seemed to imply 
a dirge for the fallen. The two parties disengaged 
themselves from each other, to take breath for a 
iew minutes. The eyes of the spectators greedily 
surveyed the shattered array of the combatants as 
they drew off from the contest, but found it still 
impossible to decide which hadsustained the greater 
loss. It seemed as if the Clan Chattan had lost 
father fewer than their antagonists ; but in com- 
pensation, the bloody plaids and shirts of their 
party (for several on both sides had thrown their 
mantles away) showed more wounded men than the 
Clan Quhele. About twenty of both sides lay on 
the fleld dead or dying ; and arms and legs lopped 
off, heads cleft to the chin, slashes deep through 
the shoulder into the breast, showed at once the 
fury of the combat, the ghastly character of the 
weapons used, and the fatal strength of the arms 
which wielded them. 

# * * . * * * 

The two Chiefs, after allowing their followers to 
breathe for the space of about ten minutes, again 
■drew up in their files, diminished by nearly one- 
third of their original number. They now chose 



their ground nearer to the river than that on which 
they had formerly encountered, which was encum- 
bered with the wounded and the slain. Some of 
the former were observed, from time to time, to 
raise themselves to gain a glimpse of the field, and 
sink back, most of them to die from the effusion 
of blood which poured from the terrific gashes in- 
flicted by the claymore. 

Harry Smith was easily distinguished by his 
Lowland habit, as well as his remaining on the 
spot where they had first encountered, where he 
stood leaning on a sword beside a corpse, whose 
bonneted head, carried to ten yards' distance from 
the body by the force of the blow which had 
swept it off, exhibited the oak-leaf, the appropriate 
ornament of the body-guard of Eachin Maclaji. 
Since he slew this man, Henry had not struck a 
blow, but had contented himself with warding off 
many that were dealt at himself, and some which 
were aimed at the Chief. MaoGilHe Chattanach 
became alarmed, when, having given the signal 
that his men should again draw together, he ob- 
served that his powerful recruit remained at a 
distance from the ranks, and showed little disposi- 
tion to join them. 

" What ails thee, man 1 " said the Chief. " Can 
so strong a body have a mean and cowardly spirit t 
Come and make in to the combat ! " 

" You as good as called me hireling but now," 
replied Harry ; " if I am such," pointing to the 
headless corpse, "I have done enough for my day's 
wage." 

" He that serves me witliout counting his hours," 
replied the Chief, " I reward him without reckon- 
ing wages." 

" Then," said the Smith, " I fight as a volunteer, 
and in the post which best likes me." 

"All that is at your own discretion," replied 
MacGillie Chattanach, who saw the prudence of 
humouring an auxiliary of such promise. 

" It is enough," said Henry ; and shouldering 
his heavy weapon, he joined the rest of the com- 
batants with alacrity, and placed himself opposite 
to the Chief of the Clan Quhele. 

It was then, for the first time, that Eachin 
showed some uncertainty. He had long looked up 
to Henry as the best combatant which Perth and 
its neighbourhood could bring into the lists. His 
hatred to him as a rival was mingled with recol- 
lection of the ease with which he had once, though 
unarmed, foiled his own sudden and desperate 
attack; and when he beheld him with his eyes 
fixed in his direction, the dripping sword in his 
hand, and obviously meditating an attack on 
him individually, his courage fell, and he gave 
symptoms of wavering, which did not escape his 
foster-father. 

It was lucky for Eachin that Torquil was in- 
capable, from the formation of his own temper, 



16 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



and that of those with whom he had lived, to con- 
ceive the idea of one of his own tribe, much less 
of his Chief and foster-son, being deficient in 
animal courage. That he was under the influence 
of enchantment was a solution which superstition 
had suggested, and he now anxiously, but in a 
whisper, demanded of Hector, "Does the spell 
now darken thy spirit, Eachin 1 " 

" Yes, wretch that I am," answered the unhappy 
youth ; " and yonder stands the fell enchanter ! " 

" What ' " exclaimed Torquil, " and you wear 



other's valour. Henry Wynd, in his impatience to 
begin the contest, advanced before the Clan Chattan, 
and signed to Eachin to come on. Norman, how- 
ever, sprang forward to cover his foster-brother, 
and there was a general, though momentary pause, 
as if both parties were willing to obtain an omen 
of the fate of the day, from the event of this duel. 
The Highlander advanced, with his large sword 
uplifted, as in act to strike ; but just as he came 
within sword's length, he dropped the long and 
cumbrous weapon, leapt lightly over the Smith's 




Duel between Henry Wtnd and Norman. (Brawnhij W. B. Hole, A.H.S.A.) 



harness of his making 1 — Norman, miserable boy, j 
why brought you that accursed mail ? " | 

" If my arrow has flown astray, I can but shoot 
my life after it," answered Norman-nan -Ord. 
" Stand firm ; you shall see me break the spell." 

" Yes, stand firm," said Torquil. " He may be 
a fell enchanter ; but my own ear has heard, and 
my own tongue has told, that Eachin shall leave 
the battle whole, free, and unwounded — let us see 
the Saxon wizard who can gainsay that. He may 
be a strong man, but the fair forest of the oak 
shall fall, stock and bough, ere he lay a finger on 
my Dault. " 

The wild pibroch again sounded the onset ; but 
the two parties approached each other more slowly 
than at first, as men who knew and respected each 



sword, as he fetched a cut at him, drew his dagger, 
and, being thus within Henry's guard, struck him 
with the weapon (his own gift) on the side of the 
throat, directing the blow downwards into the 
chest, and calling aloud, at the same time, " You 
taught me the stab !" 

But Henry Wynd wore his own good hauljerk, 
doubly defended with a lining of tempered steel. 
Had he been less surely armed, his combats had 
been ended for ever. Even as it was, he was 
slightly wounded. 

"Fool !" he replied, striking Norman a blow 
with the pommel of his long sword, which made 
him stagger backwards, "you were taught the 
thrust, but not the parry ;" and fetching a blow at 
his antagonist, which cleft his skull through the 
steel-cap, he strode over the Ufeless body to engage 



A HIGHLAND FEUD. 



17 



the young Chief, who now stood open before 
him. 

But the sonorous voice of Torquil thundered 
out, " Another for Hector ! " and the two brethren 
who flanked their Chief on each side, thrust forward 
upon Henry, and, striking both at once, compelled 
him to keep the defensive. 

" Forward, race of the Tiger Cat ! " cried Mac- 
Gillie Chattanach ; " save the brave Saxon ; let 
these kites feel your talons ! " 

Already much wounded, the Chief dragged him- 
self up to the Smith's assistance, and cut down 
■one by whom he was assailed. Henry's own good 
sword rid Mm of the other. ' 

"Again for Hector !" shouted the faithful foster- 
father. 

" Death for Hector ! " answered two more of his 
devoted sons, and opposed themselves to the fury • 
of the Smith and those who had come to his aid ; j 
while Eachin, moving towards the left wing of the 
battle, sought less formidable adversaries, and 
again by some show of valour, revived the sinking 
hopes of his followers. The two children of the 
oak, who had covered this movement, shared the 
fate of their brethren ; for the cry of the Clan 
Chattan Chief had drawn to that part of the field 
some of his bravest warriors. The sons of Torquil 
did not faU unavenged, but left dreadful marks of 
their swords on the persons of the dead and living. 
But the necessity of keeping their most distin- 
.guished soldiers around the person of their Chief 
told to disadvantage on the general event of the 
■combat ; and so few were now the number who 
remained fighting, that it was easy to see that the 
•Clan Chattan had fifteen of their number left, 
though most of them wounded ; and that of the 
Glan Quhele only about ten remained, of whom 
there were four of the Chief's body-guard, includ- 
ing Torquil himself 

They fought and struggled on, however, and as 
their strength decayed their fury seemed to in- 
crease. Henry Wynd, now wounded in many 
places, was still bent on breaking through or ex- 
terminating the band of bold hearts who continued 
to fight around the object of his animosity. But 
stiU the father's shout of " Another for Hector ! " 
was cheerfully answered by the fatal countersign, 
" Death for Hector ! " and though the Clan Quhele 
were now outnumbered, the combat seemed still 
dubious. It was bodily lassitude alone that again 
compelled them to another pause. 

The Clan Chattan were then observed to be 
twelve in number, but two or three were scarce 
able to stand without leaning on their swords. 
Five were left of the Clan Quhele ; Torquil and 
his youngest son were of the number, both slightly 
wounded. Eachin alone had, from the vigilance 
used to intercept all blows levelled against his 
person, escaped without injury. The rage of both 
c 



parties had sunk, through exhaustion, into sullea 
desperation. They walked staggering, as if in 
their sleep, through the carcases of the slain, and 
gazed on them, as if again to animate their hatred 
towards their surviving enemies, by viewing the 
friends they had lost. 

The multitude soon after beheld the survivors of 
the desperate conflict drawing together to renew 
the exterminating feud on the banks of the river, 
as the spot least slippery with blood, and less en- 
cimibered with the bodies of the slain. 

" For God's sake — for the sake of the mercy 
which we daQy pray for," said the kind-hearted 
old King, to the Duke of Albany, "let this be 
ended ! Wherefore should these wretched rags 
and remnants of humanity be saiifered to com- 
plete their butchery 1 Surely they wUl now be 
ruled, and accept of peace on moderate terms ? " 

" Compose yourself, my liege," said his brother. 
" These men are the pest of the Lowlands. Both 
Chiefs are stiU living — if they go back unharmed, 
the whole day's work is cast away. Eemember 
your promise to the council, that you would not 
cry hold." 

****** 
The King sighed deeply. "You must work 
your pleasure, and are too wise for me to contend 
with. I can but turn away, and shut my eyes 
from the sights and sounds of a carnage which 
makes me sicken. But well I know that God 
will punish me for even witnessing this waste of 
human life." 

"Sound, trumpets!" said Albany; "their woimds 
will stiffen if they dally longer." 

While this was passing, Torquil was embracing 
and encouraging his young Chief. 

" Eesist the witchcraft but a few minutes longer ! 
Be of good cheer — you wiU come off without 
either scar or scratch, wem or wound. Be of good 
cheer ! " 

" How can I be of good cheer," said Eachin, 
" while my brave kinsmen have one by one died 
at my feet? — died all for me, who could never 
deserve the least of their kindness ! " 

" And for what were they born save to die for 
their Chief ?" said Torquil, ccnposedly. "Why 
lament that the arrow returns not to the quiver, 
providing it hit the mark 1 Cheer up yet. Here 
are Tormot and I but little hurt, while the wild- 
cats drag themselves through the plain as if they 
were half throttled by the terriers. Yet one brave 
stand, and the day shaU be your own, though it 
may well be that you alone remain alive. Min- 
strels, sound the gathering ! " 

The pipers on both sides blew their charge, and 
the combatants again mingled in battle, not indeed 
with the same strength, but with unabated in- 
veteracy. They were joined by those whose duty it 
was to have remained neuter, but who now found 



GLEANIiNGS i'KOM PoriFLAR AUTHORS. 



themselves unable to do so. The two old cham- 
pions who bore the standards had gradually ad- 
vanced from the extremity of the lists, and now 
approached close to the immediate scene of action. 
When they beheld the carnage more nearly, they 
were mutually impelled by the desire to revenge 
their brethren, or not to svirvive them. They at- 
tacked each other furiously with the lances to 
which the standards were attached, closed after 
exchanging several deadly thrusts, then grappled 
in close strife, still holding their banners, until at 
length, in the eagerness of the conflict, they fell 
together into the Tay, and were found drowned 
after the combat closely locked in each other's 
arms. The fury of battle, the frenzy of rage and 
despair, infected next the minstrels. The two 
pipers, who during the conflict had done their 
utmost to keep up the spirits of their brethren, 
now saw the dispute well-nigh terminated for want 
of men to support it. They threw down their in- 
struments, rushed desperately upon each other with 
their daggers, and each being more intent on des- 
patching his opponent than in defending himself, 
the piper of Clan Quliele was almost instantly 
slain, and he of Clan Chattan mortally wounded. 
The last, nevertheless, again grasped his instru- 
ment, and the pibroch of the clan yet poured its 
expiring notes over the Clan Chattan, while the 
dying minstrel had breath to inspire it. The in- 
strument which he used, or at least that part of it 
called the chanter, is preserved in the family of a 
Highland Chief to this day, and is much honoured 
under the name of the Federan Dim, or Black 
Chanter. 

Meanwhile, in the final charge, young Tormot, 
devoted, like his brethren, by his father Torquil to 
the protection of his Chief, had been mortally 
wounded by the unsparing sword of the Smith. 
The other two remaining of the Clan Quhele had 
also fallen, and Torquil, with his foster-son, and 
the wounded Tormot, forced to retreat before eight 
or ten of the Clan Chattan, made a stand on the 
bank of the river, while their enemies were making 
such exertions as their wounds would permit to 
come up with them. Torquil had just reached the 
spot where he had resolved to make the stand, 
when the youth Tormot dropped and expired. 
His death drew from his father the first and only 
sigh which he had breathed throughout the eventfid 
day. 

" My son Tormot ! " he said, " my youngest and 
dearest ! But if I save Hector, I save all. Now, 
my darling Dault, I have done for thee all that man 
may, excepting the last. Let me undo the clasps 
of that ill-omened armour, and do thou put on 
that of Tormot ; it is light, and will fit thee well. 
While you do so, I will rush on these crippled men, 
and make what play with them I can. I trust I 
shall have but little to do. for they are following 



each other like disabled steers. At least, darling- 
of my soul, if I am unable to save thee, I can 
show thee how a man should die." 

While Torquil thus spoke, he unloosed the clasps- 
of the young Chiefs hauberk, in the simple belief 
that he could thus break the meshes vyhich fear^ 
and necromancy had twined about his heart. 

" My father, my father, my more than parent ! " ' 
said the unhappy Eacliin. " Stay with me ! — 
with you by my side, I feel I can fight to the 
last." 

" It is impossible," said Torquil. " I will stop- 
them coming up, while you put on the hauberk. 
God eternally bless thee, beloved of my soul ! " 

And then, brandishing his sword, Torquil of the 
Oak rushed forward with the same fatal war-cry^, 
which had so often sounded over that bloody field. 
The words rung three times in a voice of thunder : 
and each time that he cried his war-shout, he 
struck down one of the Clan Chattan, as he met 
them successively straggling towards him.- — " Brave 
battle, hawk — well flown, falcon ! " exclaimed the 
multitude, as they witnessed exertions which 
seemed, even at this last hour, to threaten a change 
of the fortunes of the day. Suddenly these cries - 
were hushed into silence, and succeeded by a 
clashing of .swords so dreadful, as if the whole 
conflict had recommenced in the person of Henry 
Wynd and Torquil of the Oak. They cut, foined,.. 
hewed, and thrust, as if they had drawn their 
blades for the first time that day ; and their in- 
veteracy was mutual, for Torquil recognised the 
foul wizard, who, as he supposed, had cast a spell 
over his child ; and Henry saw before him the 
giant, who, during the whole conflict, had inter- 
rupted the purpose for which alone he had joined 
the combatants — that of engaging in single combat 
with Hector. They fought with an equality which, 
perhaps, would not have existed, had not Henry,, 
moi-e wounded than his antagonist, been somewhat, 
deprived of his usual agility. 

Meanwhile Eacliin, finding himself alone, after 
a disorderly and vain attempt to put on his foster- 
brother's harness, became animated by an emotion 
of shame and despair, and hurried forward to- 
support his foster-father in the terrible struggle,, 
ere some other of the Clan Chattan should come 
up. When he was within five yards, and sternly 
determined to take his share in the death-fight^ 
his foster-father fell, cleft from the collar-bone well- 
nigh to the heart. The unfortunate youth saw the- 
fall of his last friend, and at the same moment 
beheld the deadly enemy who had hunted him 
through the whole field standing within sword's 
point of him, and brandishing the huge weapon 
which had hewed its way to his life through so 
many obstacles. Perhaps this was enough to bring- 
his constitutional timidity to its highest point ; 
or perhaps he recollected, at the same moment^. 



THE RHINE AND THE MOSELLE. 



la 



"that lie was without defensive armour, and that a 
line of enemies, halting indeed and crippled, but 
•«ager for revenge and blood, were closely approach- 
ing. It is enough to say that his heart sickened, 
his eyes darkened, his ears tingled, his brain turned 
■;giddy — all other considerations were lost in the 



apprehension of instant death ; and, drawing one 
ineffectual blow at the Smith, he avoided that 
which was aimed at him in return, by bounding 
backward ; and ere the former could recover his 
weapon, Eachin had plunged into the stream of 
the Tay. 



THE EHINE AND THE MOSELLE. 




[By Edwin Arnold.] 

I^f S the glory of the sun, 

^ When the dismal night is done. 
Leaps up in the summer blue to shine, 
So gloriously flows. 
From his cradle in the snows. 



The king of all the river floods, The 
Rhine. 



As a mailed and sceptred king 

Sweeps onward triumphing, 
With waves of helmets flashing in his line ; 

As a drinker, past control. 

With the red wine on his soul, 
■Ho flashes through his vintages The Rhine. 



As a lady who would speak 
What is written on her cheek, 
if her heart would give her tongue the leave 
to tell. 



Who fears and follows still. 
And dares not trust her will. 
So follows all its windings The Moselle. 



Like the silence that is broken 
When the wished-for word is spoken. 

And the heart hath a home where it may 
dwell, 
Like the sense of sudden bliss 
And the first long, loving kiss, 

Is the meeting of the Rhine and the Moselle. 



Like the two lives that are blended 

When the loneliness is ended. 
The loneliness each heart has known so well ; 

Like the sun and moon together, 

In a sky of sj^lendid weather. 
Is the marriage of the Rhine and the Moselle. 




20 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



SENT TO GOD. 




AEK to the sounds of toil ! — the 
signs and the sounds of life ; 
The strivings of muscle, hand-labour, 
and brain. 
With which the city is rife. 
How strange and unfit doth the turmoil 
break 
On the stilly chamber where Death 
doth reign 
Unseen like a coU^d snake. 

In the heart of this heartless town — well the 
term agrees ! — 
The heart of a woman beats fitful and slow, 
For life is at the lees ; 
And the breath that she breathes would scarcely 
stir 
A feather away from its flickering blow ; 
Death measures it unto her. 

O ! look at that thin, wan face, — look at that 
straining eye. 
And read the tale of the broken heart 
That is about to die ; 
And read the tale of that anguished look 
Whiich speaks, though the tongue forgets its 
part. 
As plain as a printed book. 

Look at that wasted arm — the bones through the 
white skin start. 
Wasted, 'tis true, by sickness and pain ; 
But hunger has worked its part : 
The last of its strength was spent, to circle his 
neck and draw 
Her child to the breast where his head is lain, 
So soon to lie no more. 

Widow and orphan-boy — one flesh — one love — one 
life- 
Knotted in one, like a Gordian knot. 
And cut by Death's keen knife. 
Each had but each— the Widow her son, the Son 
his mother's love ; 
And she shivered with fear to exchange that 
lot 
For the lot in Heaven above. 

What ! leave that little child 1 She had seen him 
hunger and thirst, 
AVhen the crust that she had feigned to eat. 
And the mUk that she had nursed. 
Starving herself that he might live. 

Had faUed, yet his kisses and whispers sweet 
Were loving as when she had food to give. 



What ! leave that loving child f She had seen his 
little face 
Peering out thro' the broken pane. 
With its anxious baby grace. 
When she sold her shawl for a loaf of bread, 
And seen its peace come back again. 
When he has heard her tread. 

She had seen his troubled look, of wonder and 
- blended thought. 
When, crushed at last, the anguished wail 
Has burst from her soul distraught ; 
She has seen him conceal both hunger and cold, 
Tho' his face grew pinched, and sharp, and 
pale — 
In misery growing old. 

And how could she leave her child 1 — the hearth 
and the cupboard bare — 
With never a soul to comfort or shield — 
Not even a stranger's care. 
She had told him, while yet her tongue coulo. 
speak. 
That the Father in Heaven to whom they had 
kneeled. 
Would temper the wind to the weak. 

That He had called her away, and she and her 
child must part. 
And he, with a smothered cry, to her languid 
arms had crept. 
Till his face lay on her heart. 
She had heard his cry of love — his trembling,, 
gasping prayer — 
To take him with her where father slept. 
And not to leave him there. 

And how could she leave her child 1 How could 
his little mind 
Conceive the meaning of Soul and Death 1 
Why he was left behind — 
She said her soul had come from God, and now it 
went to Him, 
To live, tho' her body would lose its breath. 
And her eye of flesh be dim. 

That she should see her boy — that she should 
hear him pray 
That God would make a home for her. 
And call him too away. 
Then strangely thoughtful grew the child — "Oh, 
mother, will you tell 
Your soul to tell the God of prayer 
That I do love you well 1 



SENT TO GOD. 



21 



''And, if He takes you quite, I've nothing left to 
love ; 
And, then, He'll let me go with you, 
And live in the Home above ! " 



Resting upon the mother's breast, while his littl& 
coat was spread, 
To warm the form whence warmth was fled, 
With useless, childish care. 




** For life is at the lees." {Drawn by M. L. Gou-.} 



She answered never a word — ^the last beam of her eye, 
Raised from her child, to Heaven flew. 
And her soul passed in a sigh. 

A day and a night were passed — and strangers 
entered there, 
And found the mother Ijing dead, 
And the child with his curly hair, 



Mother and child were dead — the last of their care 
was o'er — 
A life of want — a pauper's grave — 
The world would give no more. 
But the smile on the face of the chUd, tho' he was 
but a lifeless clod. 
Told of the answer that Mercj'gave 
To the message — Sent to God ! 



23 



GLEANINGS PROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



HIS SPEECH. 



. [By Max Adeler.] 

|E" OME of the friends of Judge Pitman 

induced him, jast before the last 

ipj^^ election, to permit himself to be nomi- 

Ivi nated for the State Legislature, and 




accordingly he was presented to the people 
of this community as a candidate. 

On the day before the election I 
received from the chairman a brief note, 
saying that I had been announced to speak at 
Dover that evening before a great mass meeting, 
«,nd requesting me to take the early afternoon 
"train, so that I might report to the local chairman 
in Dover before nightfall. The pleasure with 
which this summons was received was in some 
measure marred by the fact that I had not a 
speech ready, and the time was so short that 
elaborate preparation was impossible. 

The synopsis, if it may be called by that name, 
presented an appearance something like the 
iollowing. 

THE SPEECH. 

1. Exordium, concluding with Scott's famous 
lines, " Breathes there a man with soul so 
■dead," &c. 

2. Arguments, introducing a narrative of the 
iacts in the case of Hotchkiss, who was locked out 
Tipon the roof of his house all night. The design 
-of the story is to give a striking picture of the 
ananner in which the opposition party wiU be left 
out in the cold by the election. (Make this strong, 
and pause for cheers.) 

3. Arguments, followed by the story of the 
Kickapoo Indian who saw a locomotive approach- 
ing upon the plains, and thinking it was a superior 
breed of buffalo, determined to capture it, so that 
he could take the first prize at the Kickapoo 
agricultural fair. He tied his lasso to his waist 
and threw the other end over the smoke-stack. 
"The locomotive did not stop ; but when the 
•engineer arrived at the next station, he went out 
.and cut the string by which a small bit of copper- 
coloured meat was tied to his smoke-stack. This 
is to illustrate the folly of the attempt of con- 
servatism to check the onward career of pure and 
■enlightened liberalism toward perfect civilisa- 
tion, &o. &c. 

4. Arguments, and then the anecdote of that 
Dutchman in Berks county, who on the 10th 
•of October, 1866, was observed to go out into his 
jrard and raise the American flag ; then he got his 
.^un and fired a salute seventeen or eighteen times, 
after which he consumed six packs of fire-crackers 
and gave three cheers for the Union. He enjoyed 
timseif in this manner nearly all day, while his 



neighbours gathered around outside and placed 
their elbows upon the fence, watching him and 
wondering what on earth he meant. A pedlar 
who came along stopped, and had an interview 
with him. To his surprise, he found that the 
German agriculturist was celebrating the Fourth 
of July, 1859. He did not know that it was any 
later in the century, for he had been keeping his 
time on a notched stick ; and having been sick a 
great deal, he had gotten the thing in a dreadful 
tangle. When he learned that he was seven 
Fourths in arrears, he was depressed ; but he sent 
out and bought a box of fire-crackers and a barrel 
of gunpowder, and spent a week catching up. 

5. Arguments, supplemented with the narrative 
of a confiding man who had such child-like faith 
in a patent fire-extinguisher which he had 
purchased, that he set fire to his house merely to 
have the fun of putting it out. The fire burned 
furiously, but the extinguisher gave only two or 
three imbecile squirts and then collapsed, and in 
two hours his residence was in ashes. Go on to 
say that our enemies have applied the torch of 
anarchy to the edifice of this government, but that 
there is an extinguisher which will not only not 
collapse, but will subdue the flames and quench 
the incendiary organisation, and that extinguisher 
is our party. (Allow time for applause here.) 

6. Arguments, introducing the story of the 
Sussex county farmer who was discouraged 
because his wife was perfidious. Before he was 
married she vowed over and over again that she 
could chop four cords of wood a day, but after the 
ceremony the farmer found he was deceived. The 
treacherous woman could not chop more than two 
cords and a half, and so the dream of the husband 
was dissipated, and he demanded a divorce as the 
only balm for the wounds which lacerated his 
heart. Let this serve to illustrate the point that 
our political enemies have deceived us with 
promises to reduce the debt, to institute reforms, 
&c. &c., none of which they have kept, and now 
we must have the government separated from 
them by such a divorce as will be decreed to- 
morrow, c&C. (fee. 

7. Peroration, working in if possible the story of 
Commodore Scudder's dog, which, while out with 
its master one day, pointed at some partridges. 
The commodore was about to fire, but he suddenly 
received orders to go off on a three years' cruise, 
so he dropped his gun, left the dog standing there, 
and went right to sea. When he returned, three 
years later, he went back to the field, and there 
was his gun, there was the skeleton of the dog 



HIS SPEECH. 



23 



still standing and pointing just as be had left it, 
and a little farther on were the skeletons of the 
partridges. Show how our adversaries in their 
relations to the negro question resemble that dog. 
We came away years ago and left them pointing 
at the negro question, and we come back now to 
find that they are at it yet. 

When the train arrived at Dover, I was gratified 
to find the chairman of the local committee and 
eighteen of his fellow-citizens waiting for me with 
carriages and a brass band. As I stepped from 
the car the band played "See, the Conquering 
Hero comes ! " 

Then the music ceased, and the chairman pro- 
posed " three cheers for our eloquent visitor." The 
devoted beings around him cheered lustily. The 
chairman thereupon came forward and welcomed 
me. 

I had to begin. Bowing to the chairman, I 
said, " Mr. Chairman and fellow-citizens, there are 
times — times — there are times, fellow-citizens, 
when — times when — when the heart — there are 
times, I say, Mr. Chairman and fellow-citizens, 
when the heart — the heart of — of — " It wouldn't 
do. I stuck fast, and coidd not get out another 
word. 

I began again : — 

" There are times, I say, fellow-citizens and Mr. 
Chairman, when the heart inquires if there 
breathes a man with soul so dead, who never to 
himself hath said, '-This is my own, my native 
land' — whose heart has ne'er within him burned 
as home his footsteps he hath turned from 
wanderings on a foreign shore? If such there 
breathe, go, mark him well ! " (Here I pointed to 
the street, and one of the committee, who seemed 
not to comprehend the thing exactly, rushed to 
the window, and looked out, as if he intended to 
call a policeman to arrest the wretch referred to.) 
" For him no minstrel raptures swell." (Here the 
leader of the baud bowed, as if he had a vague 
idea that this was a compliment ingeniously 
worked into the speech for his benefit.) "High 
though his titles, proud his name, boundless his 
wealth as wish can claim ; despite these titles, 
power, and pelf, the wretch, concentrated all in 
self, living, shall forfeit fair renown, and doubly 
dying shall go down to tlie vile dust from whence 
he sprung, unwept, unhonoiu'ed, and unsung." 

I stopped. There was embarrassing silence for 
a moment, as if everybody thought I had some- 
thing more to say. But I put on my hat and 
shouldered my umbrella to assure them that the 
affair was ended. Then it began to be apparent 
that the company failed to grasp the purpose of 
my remarks. One man evidently thought I was 
complaining of something that happened to me 
while I was upon the train, for he took me aside 



and asked me in a confidential whisper if it- 
wouldn't be better for him to see the conductor- 
about it. 

Another man inquired if the governor was the- 
man referred to. 

I said, " No ; the remai-ks were of a poetical 
nature ; they were quoted." 

The man seemed surprised, and asked where I 
got them from. 

" From Marmion." 

He considered a moment, and then said— 

"Don't know him. Philadelphia man, L 
reckon 1" 

The occasion was too sad for words. I took 
the chairman's arm and we marched out to the 
carriages. It was supper-time when we reached 
the hotel, and as soon as we entered, the chairman 
invited us into one of the parlours, where an 
elaborate repast had been prepared for the whole 
party. We went into the room, keeping step- 
with a march played by the band, which was 
placed in the corner. When supper was over, it 
was with dismay that I saw the irrepressible 
chairman rise and propose a toast, to which he 
called upon one of the company to respond. 

So I resolved that if the chairman called upon 
me I would tell my number two story, giving the 
arguments, and omitting all of it from my speech 
in the evening. 

He did call. When two or three men had, 
spoken, the chairman ofiered the toast, " The 
orator of the evening," and it was received with 
applause. 

I rose, and said : "Mr. Chairman and gentlemen, 
I am too much fatigued to make a speech, and I 
wish to save my voice for to-night ; so I will tell 
you a story of a man I used to know whose name 
was Hotchkiss. He lived up at New Castle, and 
one night he thought he wonld have a little innocent 
fun scaring his wife by dropping a loose brick or 
two down the chimney into the fireplace in her 
room. So he slipped softly out of bed ; and crept 
out upon the roof. Mr. Hotchkiss dropped nine- 
teen bricks down that chimney, Mr. Chairman 
and gentlemen, each one with an emphatic slam,, 
but his wife didn't scream once." 

Everybody seemed to think this was the end of 
the story ; so there was a roar of laughter, although 
I had not reached the humorous part of the real 
point of the anecdote, which describes how Hotch- 
kiss gave it up and tried to go down-stairs, but was 
surprised to find that Mrs. Hotchkiss, who had 
been watching all the time, had retreated, fasten- 
ing the trap-door, so that he spent the next four- 
hours upon the comb of the roof. 

At eight o'clock a very large crowd really dii 
assemble in front of the porch of one of the hotels^ 
I felt somewhat nervous ; but I was tolerably- 
certain I could speak my piece acceptably, even. 



24 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



Tvitli the poetry torn out of the introduction and 
the number two story sacrificed. 

The chairman began with a short speech in 
which he went over almost precisely the ground 
•covered by my introduction ; and as that portion 
■of my oration was already reduced to a fragment 
T)y the use of the verses, I quietly resolved to 
begin, when my turn came, with point number 
-two. 

The Chairman introduced to the crowd Mr. 
Keyser, who was received with cheers. He was a 
ready speaker, and he began, to my deep regret, 
by telling in capital style my story number three, 
after whicli he used up some of my number six 
•arguments. 

Mr. Keyser then sat down, and Mr. Schwartz 
was introduced. Mr. Schwartz observed that it 



was pleasantly familiar. Krumbauer went ahead, 
and the crowd received his remarks with roars of 
laughter. After one particularly exuberant out- 
burst of merriment, I asked the man who sat next 
to me, and who seemed deeply interested in the 
story — 

" What was that little joke of Krumbauer's ? 
It must have been iirst-rate." 

" So it was," he said. " It was about a Dutch- 
man up in Berks county who got mixed up in 
his dates." 

" What dates V 1 gasped, in awful apprehension. 

"Why, his Fourths of July, you know. Got 
seven or eight years in arrears and tried to make 
them all up at once. Good, wasn't it ? " 

'' Good 1 I should think so ; ha ! ha ! My 
very best story, as I'm a sinner ! " 




Ekumbatjer's Speech. 



■was hardly worth while for him to attempt to 
make anything like a speech, because the gentle- 
man from New Castle had come down on purpose 
to discuss the issues of the campaign, and tlie 
audience, of course, was anxious to hear him. Mr. 
Schwartz would only tell a little story which 
.seemed to illustrate a point he wished to make, 
and he thereupon related my anecdote number 
seven, making it appear that he was the bosom 
friend of Commodore Scudder and an acquaint- 
ance of the man who made the gun. The point 
illustrated, I was shocked to find, was almost 
precisely that which I had attached to my story 
number seven. The situation began to have a 
serious appearance. Here, at one fell swoop, two 
•of my best stories and three of my sets of argu- 
ments were swept ofi' into utter uselessness. 

When Schwartz withdrew, a man named Krum- 
bauer was brought forward. Krumbauer was a 
German, and the chairman announced that he 
would speak in that language for the benefit of 
those persons in the audience to whom the tongue 



It was awfully bad. I could have strangled 
Krumbauer and then chopped him into bits. The 
ground seemed slipping away beneath me ; there 
was the merest skeleton of a speech left. But I 
determined to take that and do my best, trusting 
to luck for a happy result. 

But my turn had not yet come. Mr. Wilson was 
dragged out next, and I thought I perceived a de- 
moniac smile steal over the countenance of the 
cymbal player as Wilson said he was too hoarse to 
say much ; he would leave the heavy work for the 
brilliant young orator who was here from New 
Castle. He would skim rapidly over the ground 
and then retire . He did. Wilson rapidly skimmed 
all the cream off of my arguments numbers two, 
five, and six, and wound up by offering the whole 
of my number four argument. My hair fairly 
stood on end when Wilson bowed and left the 
stand. What on earth was I to do now ? In an 
agony of despair, I turned to the man next to me 
and asked him if I would have to follow Wilson. 

He said it was his turn now. 



HIS SPEECH. 



25 



"And what are you going to say ^" I demanded, 
suspiciously. 

" Oh, nothing," he replied — " nothing at all. I 
■want to leave room for you. I'U just tell a 
little story or so, to amuse them, and then sit 
down." 

" What story, for instance 1 " I asked. 

"Oh, nothing, nothing; only a Uttle yarn I 
happen to remember about a farmer who married 
a woman who said she could cut four cords of 
wood, when she corddn't." 

My worst fears were realised. I turned to the 
man next to me, and said, with suppressed emotion — 

" May I ask your name, my friend 1 " 

He said his name was Gumbs. 

" May I inquire what your Christian name is 1 " 

He said it was William Henry. 

"Well, Wilham Henry Gumbs," I exclaimed, 
*' gaze at me ! Do I look like a man who would 
slay a human being in cold blood ? " 

" Hm-m-m, n-no ; you don't," he replied, with an 
air of critical consideration. 

" But I AM ! " said I, fiercely—" I AM ; and I 
tell you now that if you undertake to relate that 
anecdote about the farmer's wife I will kill you 
without a moment's warning; I will, by George !" 

Mr. Gumbs instantly jumped up, placed his 
hand on the railing of the porch, and got over 
suddenly into the crowd. He stood there pointing 
me out to the bystanders, and doubtless advancing 
the theory that I was an original kind of a lunatic, 
who might be expected to have at any moment a 
fit which would be interesting when studied from 
a distance. 

The chairman looked around, intending to call 
upon my friend Mr. Gumbs; but not perceiving 
iim, he came to me and said : 

" Now is your chance, sir ; splendid opportunity ; 
crowd worked up to just the proper pitch. We 
have paved the way for you ; go in and do your 
best." 

" Oh, yes ; but hold on for a few moments, wiU 
you 1 I can't speak now ; the fact is I am not 
quite ready. Run out some other man." 

" Haven't got another man. Kept you for the 
last purposely, and the crowd is waiting. Come 
ahead and pitch in, and give it to 'em hot and 
heavy. Hit 'em hard, old fellow, hit 'em 
hard." 

The crowd received me with three hearty cheers. 
As I heard them I began to feel dizzy. The 
audience seemed to swim around and to increase 
tenfold in size. By a resolute eifort I recovered 
my seK-possession partially, and determined to 
begin. I could not think of anything but the two 
stories, and I resolved to tell them as well as I 
could. I said, " Fellow-citizens ; It is so late now. 



that I will not attempt to make a speech to you." 
(Cries of " Yes ! " " Go ahead ! " " Never mind 
the time !" &c. &c.) Elevating my voice, I re- 
peated : " I say it is so late now that I can't make 




Consternation of CoiiiiirrEE. 

a speech as I intended on account of its being so 
late that the speech which I intended to make 
would keep you here too late if I made it as I 
intended to. So I will tell you a story about a 
man who bought a patent fire-extinguisher which 
was warranted to split four cords of wood a day ; 
so he set fire to his house to try her, and — No, it 
was his wife who was warranted to split four cords 
of wood — I got it wrong; and when the flames ob- 
tained full headway, he found she could only split 
two cords and a half, and it made him — What I 
mean is that the farmer, when he bought the 
exting — courted her, that is, she said she cordd set 
fire to the house, and when he tried her, she 
collapsed the first time — the extinguisher did, and 
he wanted a divorce because lus house — Oh, hang 
it, fellow-citizens, you understand that this man, 
or farmer, rather, bought a — I should say courted 
a — that is, a fire-ex — " (Desperately) " Fellow- 
citizens ! If any man shoots the American" 

FLAG, PULL HIM DOWN UPON THE SPOT ; BUT 
AS FOR ME, GIVE ME LIBERTY OR GIVE ME 
DEATH !" 

As I shouted this out at the top of my voice, in 
an ecstasy of confusion, a wild tumultuous yell of 
laughter came up from the crowd. I rushed down 
the street to the station, with the shouts of the 
crowd and the uproarious music of the band 
ringing in my ears. I got upon a train, and spent 
the night riding to New Castle. 



26 



GLEANI^-GS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



THE AUTOBIOGEAPHY OF A WEDDING RING. 

[By W. E. S. Ealsiok.) 



Xp ''"-'"'' 




I? ID in a drawer which rarely sees the light, 
With no companions of my solitude 
Beyond a few worn relics of the Past, 
A glove, a lock of hair, and two or three 
Old letters, here I slowly pass away 
';'■ A dull existence. 

I Yet there was a time 

When all my life was joyous, when I knew 
What warmth and sunlight meant, and I was loved 
And valued far beyond comparison 
With costlier trinkets. 

j\Iany a year has passed 
Since deep within the earth the gold lay hid 
From which men fi-amed me : fading memories 
Still haunt me of a former life which ran 
In glittering veins through lustrous rocks of spar, 
And then of transformations swift and strange 
Through which I passed till, one bright summer 

day, 
I found myself, a gleaming circlet, wrapped 
In softest bed of fleecy wool, a score 
Of bright companions nestling by my side. 
Laid in the sunlight which came streaming through 
A wall of crystal. Every day there bent 
Bright faces over u.s, fair girls whose cheeks 
Flushed rosy-red as in their little hands 
They poised us, youths whose voices took 
A softer tone whenever they addressed 
Their sweet companions. Happy laughter rang 
Above us, mixed with tender cadences. 
And now and then a tear would fall and dim 
Our lustre for a moment. 

Well, there came 
A day when I was chosen by a hand 
So white and delicate, it seemed as if 
'Twere made of snow, and snow-like seemed the 

brow 
Of her who chose me, and the graceful neck ; 
But sunny light gleamed from her golden hair, 
And sky -like beamed the azure of her eye. 
A few brief hours went swiftly by, and then 
I found myself encircling in my clasp 
Her soft white finger, and I felt the hand 
Of her proud husband, as it tenderly 
But firmly closed round hers, and heard his 

voice 
Address her as his love, his own at last. 
From that time forward, for a score of years. 
My life was linked with happiness ; the sun 
■Seemed always shining on me ; joyfulness 



Made its abode within the peaceful home 

Wherein my mistress moved, and time passed hy 

And scarcely altered her ; she never lost 

The charm of voice and look which won all hearts 

Where'er she went, and sorrow seldom came 

To line her cheek or brow, or turn to grey 

The golden radiance which, halo-like, 

Gleam'd round her head ; about her grew a group 

Of children, from whose soft blue eyes her calm, 

Contented spirit seemed to look ; and he 

Who won her maiden love, still ruled her heart 

Through womanhood, nor ever swerved one jot 

From his allegiance to his perfect wife. 

My place seemed fix'd for ever on her hand. 

Until that fatal day which brought the shade 

Of death across our sunlight, and she lost 

The child she loved the dearest : from that time 

Her voice grew sadder, and I felt my hold 

Grow feebler on her finger ; still she tried 

To wear the old smile on her cheek whene'er 

Her husband watched her ; but at times, alone, 

I heard her sob as if her heart would break. 

Then she fell ill, and all the house grew dark, 

And one sad day her hand turned cold and numb^ 

And I was taken from it. Ne'er again 

Saw I the mistress whom I loved so well ; 

But from her hair a golden chain' was made, 

From which I hung close to her husband's heart. 

There all his life he wore me, till at last 

He, dying, gave me to his eldest girl. 

And bid her keep me for her mother's sake. 

And so I found myself placed here, away 

With these old letters telling of his love 

And hers, the ink now faded, and the gloss 

Gone from the paper ; here, too, shines a lock 

Of her bright hair, and there a glove she wore 

Upon the day when she became a wife. 

Her children long have married, and at times 

I hear sweet tiny voices eiying, " Please 

Open the drawer and let us see the ring 

Grandmamma wore upon her wedding-day." 

Then the drawer opens, and the light once more 

Dances around me, and again I seem 

To see the golden hair I knew so well. 

And watch the soft blue of the eyes I loved. 

For in her children's children yet there lives 

Some sweet reflection of my lady's face. 

Then shuts the drawer, the darkness comes again. 

And I am left once more to muse alone, 

And brood upon the memories of the Past 



HOW TO WASH A DOG. 



27 



HOW TO WASH A DOG. 




DOG was look- 
ing very scrubby 
about the back. 
I thought he was 
going to have 
the mange — not 
that I knew 
mange if I saw 
it, only it was 
a sort of word 
that sounded 
like the look of 
that dog's back. 
So I went to a 
friend who knew 
a deal about 
dogs (which I 
•don't), and said mine was going to have the mange 
— what was good for it? Sulphur, he said, was 
the best thing to use ; safe cure for it ; no diffi- 
culty. I didn't know whether the sulphur should 
be taken as a pUl, or put on like ointment ; all I 
knew was that he said " sulphur," and I did not 
-choose to expose my ignorance by asking. 

I concluded I would try the effects of a wash first. 
I went into a grocer's, and asked for three- 
penn'orth of soft-soap, sajring in an off-hand 
way, "Kills fleas, doesn't it?" I had never , 
seen soft-soap before (I never want to see it 
again ; but let that pass), so I was in- 
terested in its appearance when I got 
a lump, about the size of my two 
fists, of a stodgy, moshy, clammy- ,:'--''=W 
looking mass, resembling a 
Tnixture of sand and half —^ 

frozen honey. The man 
wrapped it up in a 
piece of paper, ^ 

and I shud- 



thank you." Some men always say, " Thank you." 
And, self-satisfied I went my way, the noble 
hound (N.B. — Cross between a general mongrel 
and a pine log) following me unconscious of 
his fate. 

It was in the back-yard that the deed was done. 
With a generosity worthy of a better cause, I had 
brought down from my bed-room my own bath — 
one of those round, shallow, milk-pan affairs — and 
had filled it about two inches deep with lukewarm 
water. 

Then came the scratch ; I use this word meta- 
phorically, but it became literal before the operation 
was over — as the paint that is not in my bath can 
testify. 

I knew no more about the application of soft- 
soap than of sulphur, but I thought that I could 
guess how to use the former, which I imagined to 




In the Bath. {Brawn by W. Halston,) 



•dered at the feel of it, as I put it into my coat- 
pocket. 

" Thanks — good morning." " Mornin', sir — 



be harmless ; while with the sulohur I might have 
done it wrong, and have been had up for culpable 
canicide. 



28 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



Cook kindly pinned the sacking cover of her 
travelling-box round me, to keep off the splashes, 
and provided a square of old carpet, folded up 
small, so as to be soft, for me to kneel on. 

I hfted the dog into the bath, and held him by 
the scruff, while he madly plunged, kicked, and 
struggled in his anxiety to get out, ploughing up 
the bright paint at the bottom in long beautiful 
furrows — four of them parallel, at a stroke. To do 
the dog justice, however, he did not waste the 
paint. At the end of each nail-rut was a sweet 
little coil, all ready to be stuck down in the fiu-row 
again by any one who knew how. I did not know 
how. 

With my right hand I applied the soft-soap. 
It never struck me that it might act like ordinary 
soap does when rubbed into hair ; but it did — only 
more so. If it had struck me I might have been 
content with using a lump — say about the size of a 
piece of mud; but, being in ignorance, I calmly 
and systematically plastered that dog until all my 
three-penn'orth was gone, and the faithful beast 
looked like a stuffed brown-tabby cat with its com- 
plexion a little bit faded. 

Then the wash really began. Taking some water 
in my hand, Iset-to to workup the soap, commencing 
on the back. At first there was no effect, and my 
hand slipped about like an eel spiralising on a 
greasy pole— downwards. Presently a tinge of 
white appeared, and gradually spread and spread. 
This was lather. I think I'll alter the type of that 
sentence, and say, " This tvas lather." It was ! 
It rose, and rose, and rose ; it spread ; it widened 
out ; it hung down, and stuck out in front and 
behind far beyond the last hairy extremities of 
dog. Still I persevered, and still the lather in- 
creased, till the four legs were one solid pedestal of 
white, and all semblance of animal shape was lost 
in soap. 

Then I began to wash the soap off, but the more 



I washed it off, the more it didn't go. It only 
increased and thickened, and I began to feel dis- 
couraged. 

I knew the dog was there — somewhere — because 
I hadn't seen him go away ; but the only sight I 
had had to remind me of him was one great 
bubbling, frothing, hissing, seething, effervesceiV" 
mass of lather, which grew and grew, and rounded 
off at the corners, till it looked like a huge, steam- 
ing, animated snowball. 

I grew more discouraged. I saw something 
must be done, or something else might happen to- 
the dog. Presently a thought struck me, and I 
hit it back. I lifted that mass up, and carried it 
to the scullery. There was a tap, and also a pump, 
over the sink. - Holding the snowball with the 
part where the head would be under the tap, I 
turned on the water, and got cook to pump on the 
tail part. 

The stone of the sink was soon hidden from 
sight in a snowy covering. Presently two spots of 
dog appeared, deep down in two chasms of lather. 
Then I grew hopeful, and shifted the entirety a 
bit, so that more transformation might ensue. At 
last I was able to welcome a considerable portion 
of my old friend, when I began to rub what I could 
see of him, and lo, more white arose ! This went 
on, and I finally treated the dog like somebody 
else's riddle, and gave him up. 

Discarding the box-cover, I sallied forth with 
him into the wood, and, as I proceeded towards 
the pond by the brick kilns, he left behind him 
along the heather a bright, glistening, gleaming 
track, as if some gigantic snail had passed that 
way. But the pond was reached, and two masterly 
immersions (I say it with conscious pride) settled 
him. He came out clean, wet, and happy. 

Happy 1 — Well, that is, speaking comparatively. 



My dog has got a cold now ! 



P. W. T. 



v-ej^. [From 

'^HORTLY after ten o'clock, the singing- 
boys arrived at the tranter's house, 
which was invariably the place of meet- 
ing, and preparations were made for 
the start. The older men and musicians 
wore thick coats, with stiff perpendicu- 
lar collars, and coloured handkerchiefs 
wound round and round the neck till 
came to hand, over all which they 
just showed their ears and noses, like people 
looking over a wall. The remainder, stalwart 
ruddy men and boys, were mainly dressed in 




THE CHEISTMAS CHOIE. 

"Under the Greenvrood Tree." By Thomas Hakdt.] 



the end 



snow-white smock-frocks, embroidered upon the 
shoulders and breasts, in ornamental forms of 
hearts, diamonds, and zigzags. The cider- mug was 
emptied for the ninth time, the music-books were 
arranged, and the pieces finally decided upon. 
The boys, in the mean time, put the old horn- 
lanterns in order, cut candles into short lengths to 
fit the lanterns ; and, a thin fleece of snow having 
fallen since the early part of the evening, those 
who had no leggings went to the stable and wound 
wisps of hay round their ankles to keep the insi- 
dious iiakes from the interior of their boots. 



THE CHEISTMAS CHOIR. 



29 



Old William Dewy, with the violoncello, played 
the bass ; his grandson Dick the treble violin ; 
and Keiiben and Michael Mail the tenor and 
second violins respectively. The singers consisted 
of four men and seven boys, upon whom devolved 
the task of carrying and attending to the lanterns, 
and holding the books open for the players. 
Directly music was the theme, old William ever 
and instinctively came to the front. 

" Now mind, naibours," he said, as they aU went 
out one by one at the door, he himself holding it 
ajar and regarding them with a critical face as 
they passed, like a shepherd counting out his 
sheep. " You two counter-boys, keep your ears 
open to Michael's fingering, and don't ye go stray- 
ing into the treble part along o' Dick and his set, 
as ye did last year ; and mind this especially when 
we be in ' Arise, and hail.' Billy Chimlen, don't 
you sing quite so raving mad as you fain would ; 
and, all o' ye, whatever ye do, keep from making 
a great scuffle on the ground when we go in at 
people's gates ; but go quietly, so as to strik' up all 
of a sudden, like spirit.s." 

" Farmer Ledlow's first 1 " 

" Farmer Ledlow's first ; the rest as usual." 

" And, Voss," said the tranter terminatively, 
"you keep house here till about half -past two ; 
then heat the metheglin and cider in the warmer 
you'll find turned up upon the copper ; and bring 
it wi' the victuals to church-porch, as th'st know." 
****** 

Most of the outlying homesteads and hamlets 
had been visited by about two o'clock : they then 
passed across the Home Plantation toward the 
main village. Pursuing no recognised track, great 
care was necessary in walking lest their faces 
should come in contact with the low-hangiiig 
boughs of the old trees, which in many spots 
formed dense overgrowths of interlaced branches. 

" Times have changed from the times they used 
to be," said Mail, regarding nobody can tell what 
interesting old panoramas with an inward eye, and 
letting his outward glance rest on the ground, 
because it was as convenient a position as any. 
" People don't care much about us now ! I've been 
thinking, we must be almost the last left in the 
county of the old string players. Barrel-organs, 
and they next door to 'em that you blow wi' your 
foot, have come in terribly of late years." 

" Ah ! " said Bowman, shaking his head ; and 
old William, on seeing him, did the same thing. 

"More's the pity," replied another. " Time was 
— long and merry ago now ! — when not one of the 
varmits was to be heard of ; but it served some of 
the choirs right. They should have stuck to 
strings as we did, and keep out clar'nets, and done 
away with serpents. If you'd thrive in musical 
rehgion, stick to strings, says L" 



I " Strings are well enough, as far as that goes," 
said Mr. Spinks. 

I " There's worse things than serpents," said Mr. 
Penny. " Old things pass away, 'tis tr^ie ; but a 
serpent was a good old note : a deep rich note was 
the serpent." 

I " Clar'nets, however, be bad at all times," said 

' Michael Mail. "One Christmas — years agone 
now, years — I went the rounds wi' the Dibbeach 

I choir. 'Twas a hard frosty night, and the keys of 
all the clar'nets froze — ah, they did freeze ! — so 
that 'twas like drawing a cork every time a key 
was opened ; the players o' 'em had to go into a 




hedger and ditcher's chimley- corner, and thaw 
their clar'nets every now and then. An icicle o' 
spet hung down from the end of every man's 
clar'net a span long; and as to fingers— well, there, 
if ye'll believe me, we had no fingers at all, to our 
knowledge. " 

" I can well bring back to my mind, ' said Mr. 
Penny, "what I said to poor Joseph Ryme (who 
took the tribble part in High-Story Church for 
two-and-forty year) when they thought of having 
clar'nets there. ' Joseph,' I said, says I, ' depend 
upon't, if so be you have them tooting clar'nets 
you'll spoil the whole set-out. Clar'nets were not 
made for the service of Providence ; you can see it 



30 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



by looking at 'em,' I said. And what cam o't? 
Why, my dear souls, the parson set up a barrel- 
organ on his own account within two years o' the 
time I spoke, and the old choir went to nothing." 

" As far as look is concerned," said the tranter, 
" I don't for my part see that a fiddle is much 
nearer heaven than a clar'net. 'Tis farther off. 
There's always a rakish, scampish countenance 
about a fiddle that seems to say the Wicked One 
had a hand in making o'en ; while angels be 
supposed to play clar'nets in heaven, or som'at like 
'em, if ye may beheve picters." 

"Robert Penny, you were in the right," broke 
in the eldest Dewy. They should ha' stuck to 
strings. Your brass-man, is brass — well and good ; 
your reed-man, is reed— well and good ; your 
percussion-man, is percussion — good again. But 
I don't care who hears me say it, nothing will 
speak to your heart wi' the sweetness of the man 
of strings ! " 

" Strings for ever ! " said little Jimmy. 

"Strings alone would have held their ground 
against all the new comers in creation." (" True, 
true : " said Bowman.) " But clar'nets was death." 
(" Death they was ! " said Mr. Penny.) " And 
harmoniums," William continued in a louder voice, 
and getting excited by these signs of approval, 
" harmoniums and barrel-organs " (" Ah ! " and 
groans from Spinks) " be miserable — what shall I 
call 'em 1 — miserable — " 

" Sinners," suggested Jimmy, who made large 
strides like the men, and did not lag behind like 
the other little boys. 

" Miserable machines for such a divine thing as 
music ! " 

" Right, William, and so they be ! " said the 
choir with earnest unanimity. 

By this time they were crossing to a wicket in 
the direction of the school, which, standing on a 
slight eminence on the opposite side of a cross 
lane, now rose in unvarying and dark flatness 
against the sky. The instruments ivere retuned, 
and all the band entered the enclosure, enjoined 
by old William to keep upon the grass. 

" Number seventy-eight," he softly gave out, as 
they formed round in a semicircle, the boys open- 
ing the lanterns to get a clearer light, and directing 
their rays on the books. 

Then passed forth into the quiet night an 
ancient and well-worn hymn. 

4f * * * * * 

Having concluded the last note, they listened 
for a minute or two, but found that no sound 
issued from the school-house. 

" Forty breaths, and then, ' 0, what unbounded 
goodness ! ' number fifty-nine," said William. 

This was duly gone through, and no notice 
svhatever seemed to be taken of the performance. 

" Surely 'tisn't an empty house, as befell us in 



the year thirty-nine and forty-three ! " said old 
Dewy, with much disappointment. 

" Perhaps she's jist come from some noble city, 
and sneers at our doings," the tranter whispered. 

" 'Od rabbit her ! " said Mr. Penny, with an 
annihilating look at a corner of the school 
chimney, " I don't quite stomach her, if this is it. 
Your plain music well done is as worthy as your 
other sort done bad, a' b'lieve souls ; so say L" 

"Forty breaths, and then the last," said the 
leader authoritatively. " ' Rejoice, ye tenants of 
the earth,' number sixty-four." 

At the close, waiting yet another minute, he 
said in a clear loud voice, as he had said in the 
village at that hour and season for the previous 
forty years : 

" A merry Christmas to ye !" 

When the expectant stillness consequent upon 
the exclamation had nearly died out of them all, 
an increasing light made itself visible in one of 
the windows of the upper floor. It came so close 
to the blind that the exact position of the flame 
could be perceived from the outside. Remaining 
steady for an instant, the blind went upward from 
before it, revealing to thirty concentrated eyes a 
young girl, framed as a picture by the window- 
architrave, and unconsciously illuminating her 
countenance to a vivid brightness by a candle she 
held in her left hand, close to her face, her right 
hand being extended to the side of the window. 
She was wrapped in a white robe of some kind, 
whilst down her shoulders fell a twining profusion 
of marvellously rich hair, in a wild disorder which 
proclaimed it to be only during the invisible hours 
of the night that such a condition was discover- 
able. Her bright eyes were looking into the grey 
world outside with an uncertain expression, 
oscillating between courage and shyness, which, as 
she recognised the semicircular group of dark 
forms gathered before her, transformed itself into 
pleasant resolution. 

Opening the window, she said, lightly and 
warmly : 

" Thank you, singers, thank you ! " 

Together went the window quickly ancl quietly, 
and the blind started downward on its return to 
its place. Her fair forehead and eyes vanished ; 
her little mouth ; her neck and shoulders ; all of 
her. Then the spot of candlelight shone nebu- 
lously as before ; then it moved away. 

" How pretty ! " exclaimed Dick Dewy. 

"If she'd been rale Avexwork she couldn't ha' 
been comelier," said Michael Mail. 

" As near a thing to a spiritual vision as ever I 
wish to see ! " said tranter Dewy fervently. 

" 0, sich I never, never see ! " said Leaf. 

All the rest, after clearing their throats and 
adjusting their hats, agreed that such a sight was 
worth singing for. 



THE CHRISTMAS CHOIR. 



31 



" Now to Fanner Shinar's, and then replenish 
our insides, father," said the tranter. 

" Wi' all my heart," said old William, shoulder- 
ing his bass-viol. 

Farmer Shinar's was a queer lump of a house, 
standing at the corner of a lane that ran obliquely 
into the principal thoroughfare. The upper 
windows were much wider than they were high, 
and this feature, together with a broad bay-window 
where the door might have been expected, gave it 
by day the aspect of a human countenance turned 
askance, and wearing a sly and wicked leer. To- 
night nothing was visible but the outline of the 
roof upon the sky. 

The front of this building was reached, and the 
preliminaries arranged as usual. 

" Forty breath.s, and number thirty-two, — ' Be- 
hold the morning star,' " said old William. 

They had reached the end of the second verse, 
and the fiddlers were doing the up bow-stroke 
■previously to pouring forth the opening chord of 
the third verse, when, without a light appearing or 
any signal being given, a roaring voice exclaimed : 

"Shut up ! Don't make your blaring row 
here; A feUer wi' a headache enough to split likes 
a quiet night." 

Slam went the window. 

" Hullo, that's an ugly blow for we artists 1 " 
said the tranter, in a keenly appreciative voice, 
and turning to his companions. 

" Finish the carrel, all who be friends of 
harmony !" said old William commandingly ; and 
they continued to the end. 

" Forty breaths, and number nineteen ! " said 
William firmly. " Give it him well ; the choir 
can't be insulted in this manner ! " 

A light now flashed into existence, the window 
opened, and the farmer stood revealed as one in a 
terrific passion. 

" Drown en ! — drown en ! " the tranter cried, 
fiddling frantically. " Play fortissimy, and drown 
his spaking ! " 

" Fortissimy ! " said Michael Mail, and the 
music and singing waxed so loud that it was 
impossible to know what Mr. Shinar had said, was 
saying, or was about to say ; but vrildly flinging 
his arms and body about in the form of capital X's 
and Y's, he appeared to utter enough invectives to 
consign the whole parish to perdition. 

" Very unseemly— very ! " said old William, as 
they retired. "Never such a dreadful scene in 
the whole round o' my carrel practice— never ! 
And he a churchwarden ! " 

" Only a drap o' drink got into his head," said 
the tranter. " Man's well enough when he's in his 
religious frame. He's in his worldly frame now. 
Must ask en to our bit of a party to-morrer night, 
I suppose, and so put en in track again. We bear 
no martel man iU-wilL" 



They now crossed Twenty-acres to proceed to 
the lower village, and met Voss with the hot mead 
and bread -and -cheese as they were crossing the 
churchyard. This determined them to eat and 
drink before proceeding farther, and they entered 
the belfry. The lanterns were opened, and the 
whole body sat round against the walls on benches 
and whatever else was available, and made a 
hearty meal. In the pauses of conversation cou'd 
be heard through the floor overhead a little world 
of undertones and creaks from the halting clock- 
work, which never spread farther than the tower 
they were born in, and raised in the more 
meditative minds a fancy that here lay the direct 
pathway of Time. 

Having done eating and drinking, the instru- 
ments were again tuned, and once more the party 
emerged into the night air. 

" Where's Dick t " said old Dewy. 

Every man looked round upon every other man, 
as if Dick might have been transmuted into one 
or the other ; and then they said they didn't 
know. 

" Well now, that's what I call very nasty 
of Master Dicky, that I do so," said Michael 
Mail. 

" He've clinked off' home-along, depend upon't," 
another suggested, though not quite believing that 
he had. 

" Dick ! " exclaimed the tranter, and his voice 
rolled sonorously forth among the yews. 

He suspended his muscles rigid as stone whilst 
listening for an answer, and finding he listened in 
vain, turned to the assemblage. 

" The tribble man too ! Now if he'd been a 
tinner or counter chap, we might ha' contrived the 
rest o't without en, you see. But for a choir to 
lose the tribble, why, my sonnies, you may so well 
lose your . . . ." The tranter paused, unable to 
mention an image vast enough for the occasion. 

" Your head at once," suggested Mr. Penny. 
****** 

" Was ever heard such a thing as a young man 
leaving his work half done and turning tail like 
this 1 " 

" Never," replied Bowman, in a tone signifying 
that he was the last man in the world to wish to 
withhold the formal finish required of him. 

" I hope no fatal tragedy has overtook the lad !' 
said his grandfather. 

" O no," replied tranter Dewy placidly. " Wonder 
where he've put that there fiddle of his Why 
that fiddle cost thirty shillens, and good words 
besides. Somewhere in the damp, without doubt ; 
that there instrument will be unglued and spoilt 
in ten minutes — ten ! ay, two." 

"What in the name o' righteousness can have 
happened 1 " said old William, still more uneasily. 

Leaving their lanterns and instruments in the 



32 



GLEANINGS FEOM POPULAR AUTHOES. 



belfry, tliey retraced tlieir steps. "A strapping 
lad like Dick d'know better than let anything 
happen onawares," Reuben remarked. 

****** 
They had now again reached the precincts of Mr. 
Shinar's, but hearing nobody in that direction, one 



thrown back, his eyes fixed upon the illuminated 
lattice. 

"Why, Dick, is that thee? What's doing 
here 1 " 

Dick's body instantly flew into a more rational 
attitude, and his head was seen to turn east and 




" Why, Dice, is that thee? " (Lratin hii J. R. Ecid.) 



or two went across to the school-house. A light 
was still burning in the bedroom, and though the 
blind was down, the window had been slightly 
opened, as if to admit the distant notes of the 
caroUers to the ears of the occupant of the room. 

Opposite the window, leaning motionless against 
a wall, was the lost man, his arms folded, his head 



west in the gloom, as if endeavouring to discern 
some proper answer to that question ; and at last 
he said, in rather feeble accents, 

"Nothing, father." 

" Th'st take long enough time about it then, 
upon my body," said the tranter, as they all turned 
towards the vicarage. 



WINSTANLEY. 

A BALLAD. 
[By Jeah Ingelow.] 



THE APOLOGY. 

UOTH the cedar to the reeds and rushes, 
"Water-grass, you know not what I do ; 
Know not of my storms, nor of my hushes, 
And — I know not you." 

Quoth the reeds and rushes, " Wind ! oh waken ! 

Breathe, O wind, and set our answer free, 
For we have no voice of you forsaken, 
For the cedar-tree." 



Quoth the earth at midnight to the ocean, 

" AVilderness of water, lost to view. 
Nought you are to me but sounds of motion ; 
I am nought to you." 

Quoth the ocean, " Dawn ! O fairest, clearest, 

Touch me with thy golden fingers bland ; 
For I have no smile till thou appearest 
lor the lovely land." 



V^INSTANLEY. 



33- 



Quoth the hero dying, whelmed in glory, 

" Many blame me, few have understood ; 
Ah, my folk, to you I leave a story — 
Make its meaning good." 



Quoth the folk, " Sing, poet ! teach us, prove us ; 

Surely we shall learn the meaning then : 
Wound us with a pain divine, O move us, 
For this man of men." 




" Cast away." (Drawn htj W. H. Overviid. 



Winstanley's deed, you kindly folk. 

With it I fill my lay, 
And a nobler man ne'er walked the world, 

Let his name be what it may. 

The good ship Snoivdrop tarried long, 

Up at the vane looked he ; 
"Belike," he said, for the wind had dropped, 

" She lieth becalmed at sea." 

The lovely ladies flocked within, 

And still would each one say, 
" Good mercer, be the ships come up 1 " 

But still he answered "Nay." 

Then stepped two mariners down the street 

With looks of grief and fear : 
" Now, if Winstanley be your name. 

We bring you evil qheer ! 

" For the good ship Snotvdrop struck — she struck 

On the rock — the Eddystone, 
And down .she went with threescore men, 

We two being left alone. 

'' Down in the deep, with freight and crew, 

Past any help she lies, 
And never a bale has come to shore 

Of all thy merchandise." 

" For cloth o' gold and comely frieze," 

Winstanley said, and sighed, 
" For velvet coif, or costly coat, 

They fathoms deep may bide. 



" O thou brave skipper, blithe and kind, 

O mariners bold and true. 
Sorry at heart, right sorry am I, 

A-thinking of yours and you. 

" Many long days Winstanley's breast 

Shall feel a weight within, 
For a waft of wind he shall be 'feared 

And trading count but sin. 

" To him no more it shall be joy 

To pace the cheerful town. 
And see the lovely ladies gay 

Step on in velvet gown." 

The Snowdrop sank at Lammas tide, 

All under the yeasty spray ; 
On Christmas Eve the brig Content 

Was also cast away. 

He little thought o' New Year's night, 

So jolly as he sat then, 
While drank the toast and praised the roast 

The round-faced aldermen, — 

Wliile serving lads ran to and fro, 

Pouring the ruby wine, 
And jellies trembled on the board. 

And towering pasties fine, — 

While loud huzzas ran up the roof 
Till the lamps did rock o'erhead. 

And hoUy boughs from rafters hung 
Dropped down their berries red. 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



He little thought on Plymouth Hoe, 

With every rising tide, 
How the wave washed in his sailor lads, 

And laid thena side by side. 

There stepped a stranger to the board : 

" Now, stranger, who be ye 1 " 
He looked to right, he looked to left, 

And " Rest you merry," quoth he ; 

" For you did not see the brig go down, 

Or ever a storm had blown ; 
For you did not see the white wave rear 

At the rock — the Eddystone. 

'' She drave at the rock with stern- sails set ; 

Crash went the masts in twain ; 
She staggered back with her mortal blow. 

Then leaped at it again. 

" There rose a great cry, bitter and strong, 

The misty moon looked out ! 
And the water swarmed vidth seamen's heads, 

And the wreck was strewed about. 

" I saw her mainsail lash the sea 

As I clung to the rock alone ; 
Then she heeled over, and down she went. 

And sank like any stone. 

" She was a fair ship, but all's one ! 

For nought could bide the shock." 
" I will take horse," Winstanley said, 

'' And see this deadly rock." 

" For never again shall barque o' mine 

Sail over the windy sea. 
Unless, by the blessing of God, for this 

Ee found a remedy." 

Winstanley rode to Plymouth town 

All in the sleet and the snow. 
And he looked around on shore and sound 

As he stood on Plymouth Hoe. 

Till a pillar of spray rose far away. 

And shot up its stately head, 
Reared and fell over, and reared again: 

" 'Tis the rock ! the rock ! " he said. 

Straight to the mayor he took his way, 
" Good Master Mayor," quoth he, 

" I am a mercer of London town. 
And owner of vessels three, — 

" But for your rock of dark renown, 

I had five to track the main." 
" You are one of many," the old mayor said, 

'' That of the rock complain. 



"An iU rock, mercer ! your words ring right. 
Well with my thoughts they chime. 

For my two sons to the world to come 
It sent before their time." 

" Lend me a lighter, good Master Mayor, 
And a score of shipwrights free, 

For I think to raise a lantern tower 
On this rock of destiny." 

The old mayor laughed, but sighed also ; 

■'Ah, youth," quoth he, " is rash ; 
Sooner, young man, tliou'lt root it out 

From the sea that doth it lash. 

" Who sails too near its jagged teeth. 

He shall have evil lot ; 
For the calmest seas that tumble there 

Froth like a boiling pot. 

" And the heavier seas few look on nigh. 
But straight they lay him dead ; 

A seventy-gun ship, sir ! — they'll shoot 
Higher than her masthead. 

" O, beacons sighted in the dark, 

They are right welcome things. 
And pitchpots flaming on the shore 

Show fair as angel wings. 

" Hast gold in hand ? then light the land. 

It 'longs to thee and me ; 
But let alone the deadly rock 

In God Almighty's sea." 

Yet said he, " Nay — I must away. 

On the rock to set my feet ; 
My debts are paid, my will I made, 

Or ever I did thee gi-eet. 

" If I must die, then let me die 

By the rock and not elsewhere ; 
If I may live, Oh, let me live 

To mount my lighthouse stair!" 

The old mayor looked him in the face, 
And answered, '' Have thy way ; 

Thy heart is stout, as if round about 
It was braced with an iron stay : 

'' Have thy will, mercer ! choose thy men. 
Put off from the storm-rid shore : 

God with thee be, or I shall see 
Thy face and theirs no more." 

Heavily plunged the breaking wave. 

And foam flew up the lea. 
Morning and even the drifted snow 

Fell into the dark grey sea. 



WINSTANLEY. 



35 



Winstanley chose him men and gear ; 

He said, " My time I waste," 
For the seas ran seething up the shore, 

And the wrack drave on in haste. 

But twenty days he waited and more, 

Pacing the strand alone, 
Or ever he set his manly foot 

On the rock — the Eddystone. 

Then he and the sea began their strife, 
And worked with power and might : 

Whatever the man reared up by day 
The sea broke down by night. 

He wrought at ebb with bar and beam, 

He sailed to shore at flow ; 
And at his side by that same tide. 

Came bar and beam also. 

" Give in, give in," the old mayor cried, 

" Or thou wilt rue the day." 
" Yonder he goes," the townsfolk sighed ; 

" But the rock will have its way. 

■" For all his looks that are so stout. 

And his speeches brave and fair, 
He may wait on the wind, wait on the wave, 

But he'll build no lighthouse there." 

In fine weather and foul weather 

The rock his arts did flout, 
Through the long days and the short days. 

Till all that year ran out. 

With fine weather and foul weather 

Another year came in : 
" To take his wage," the workmen said, 

"We almost count a sin." 

Now March was gone, came April in, 

And a sea-fog settled down, 
And forth sailed he on a glassy sea, 

He sailed from Plymouth town. 

With men and stores he put to sea, 

As he was wont to do ; 
They showed in the fog hke ghosts full faint— 

A ghostly craft and crew. 

And the sea-fog lay and wax'd alway 

For a long eight days and more ; 
" God help our men," quoth the women then ; 

" For they bide long from shore." 

They paced the Hoe in doubt and dread : 

" Where may our mariners be 1 " 
But the brooding fog lay soft as down 

Over the quiet sea. 



A Scottish schooner made the port, 

The thirteenth day at e'en : 
" As I am man," the captain cried, 

" A strange sight I have seen : 

" And a strange sound heard, my masters all, 

At sea, in the fog and the rain, 
Like shipwrights' hammers tapping low. 

Then loud, then low again. 

" And a stately house one instant showed 
Through a rift on the vessel's lee ; 

What manner of creatures may be those 
That build upon the sea ? " 

Then sighed the folk, " The Lord be praised! " 
And they flocked to the shore amain ; 

All over the Hoe that livelong night 
Many stood out in the rain. 

It ceased, and the red sun reared his head, 

And the rolling fog did flee ; 
And, lo ! in the offing faint and far 

Winstanley's house at sea ! 

In fair weather with mirth and cheer 

The stately tower uprose ; 
In foul weather, with hunger and cold, 

They were content to close ; 

Till up the stair Winstanley went, 

To fire the wick afar ; 
And Plymouth in the silent night 

Looked out and saw her star. 

Winstanley set his foot ashore : 

Said he, " My work is done ; 
I hold it strong to last as long 

As aught beneath the sun. 

" But if it fail, as fail it may, 

Borne down with ruin and rout, 
'Another than I shall rear it high. 
And brace the girders stout. 

" A better than I shall rear it high. 

For now the way is plain, 
And tlio' I were dead," Winstanley said, 

" The light would shine again. 

" Yet, were I fain still to remain. 

Watch in my tower to keep. 
And tend my light in the stormiest night 

That ever did move the deep ; 

" And if it stood, why then 'twere good. 

Amid their tremiilous stirs, 
To count each stroke when the mad waves broke 

For cheers of mariners. 



36 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



" But if it fell, then this were well, 

That I should with it fall ; 
Since, for my part, I have built my heart 

In the courses of its wall. 

" Ay ! I were fain long to remain, 

Watch in my tower to keep, 
And tend my light in the stormiest night 

That ever did move the deep." 

With that Winstanley went his way. 

And left the rock renowned, 
And summpr and winter his pilot star 

Hung bright o'er Plymouth Sound. 

But it fell out, fell out at last, 

That he a\ ould put to sea, 
To scan once moie Ins li^hthou e tower 

On the lock o destiny 



And the winds woke, and the storm broke, 

And wrecks came plunging in ; 
None in the town that night lay down. 

Or sleep or rest to win. 

The great mad waves were rolling graves. 

And each flung up its dead ; 
The seething flow was white below, 

And black the sky o'erhead. 

And when the dawn, the dull grey dawn, — 

Broke on the trembling town, 
And men looked south to the harbour mouth. 

The lighthouse tower was down. 

Down in the deep he doth sleep 

Who made it shine afar, 
And then m the night that dio^A ned its light, 

Set A\ ith his 
pilot stai 



Many fau tombs m the glorious glooms 

At Westminster they show , 
The biai e and the gieat lie theie m state : 

Winstanley lieth low 




On the Rock of Destiny." {Drawn by W. if. Ov(n-6ad.) 




RIP VAN WINKLE 

[By Washingtoh Ietins.] 



^HEEE lived, many years since, while 
America was yet a province of Great 
^r Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow, 
^? of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He 
[^1 was a simple, good-natured man; he 
was moreover a kind neighbour, and an 
obedient henpecked husband. 
Certain it is, that he was a great favourite among 
all the good wives of the village, who, as usual 
with the amiable sex, took his part in all family 
squabbles, and never failed, whenever they talked 
those matters over in their evening gossipings, to 



lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. ■ The 
children -of the village, too, would shout with joy 
whenever he approached. He assisted at their 
sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly 
kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories 
of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he 
went dodging about the village, he was surrounded 
by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clamber- 
ing on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on 
him with impunity ; and not a dog would bark at 
him throughout the neighbourhood. 

The great error in Rip's composition was an in- 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 



37 



superable aversion to aU kinds of profitable labour. 
It could not be for the want of assiduity or perse- 
verance ; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod 
as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all 
day without a murmur, even though he should not 
be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry 
a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, 
trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill 
and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild 
pigeons. He would never even refuse to assist a 
neighbour in t'']e roughest toil, and was a foremost 



point of setting in just as he had some out-door 
work to do. So that though his patrimonial estate 
had dwindled away under his management, acre by 
acre, until there was Little more left than a mere 
patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the 
worst-conditioned farm in the neighbourhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if 
they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin 
begotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit 
the habits, -with the old clothes, of his father. He 
was generally seen trooping like a colt at his 






-;r^ 








-^r'-:j^lj -^. 



A Melancholy Party of Pleasure." 



man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn 
or building stone fences ; the women of the village, 
too, used to employ him to run their errands, and 
to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging 
husbands would not do for them : -in a word. Rip 
was ready to attend to anybody's business but his 
own ; but as to doing family duty and keeping his 
farm in order, it was impossible. 

In fact, he declared it was no use to work on his 
farm; it was the most pestilent little piece of 
ground in the whole country ; everything about it 
went wrong, and would go wrong in spite of him. 
His fences were continually falling to pieces ; his 
cow would either go astray, or get among the 
cabbages ; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his 
fields than anywhere else ; the rain always made a 



mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his father's 
cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to 
hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train 
in bad weather. 

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, 
who was as much henpecked as his master ; for 
Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions 
in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an 
evil eye as the cause of his master's going so often 
astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting . 
an honourable dog, he was as courageous an animal 
as ever scoured the woods — but what courage can 
withstand the ever-during and all-besetting terrors 
of a woman's tongue ? The moment Wolf entered 
the house, his crest fell, his taU dropped to the 
ground or curled between his legs, he sneaked 



38 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



about with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong 
glance at Dame Van Winkle, and, at the least 
flourish of a broomstick or ladle, would flee to the 
door with yelping precipitation. 

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van 
Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on ; a tart 
temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue 
is the only edge-tool that grows keener by constant 
use. For a long while he used to console himself, 
when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of 
perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other 
idle personages of the village, that held its sessions 
on a bench before a small inn, designated by a 
rubicund portrait of his Majesty George III. 
Here they used to sit in the shade, of a long lazy 
.summer's day, talk listlessly over village gossip, or 
tell endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it 
"would have been worth any statesman's money to 
have heard the profound discussions that sometimes 
took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell 
into their hands from some passing traveller. How 
solemnly they would listen to the contents, as 
drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the school- 
master, a dapper, learned little man, who was not 
to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the 
dictionary ; and how sagely they would deliberate 
upon public events some months after they had 
taken place. 

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair ; 
and his only alternative to escape from the labour 
of the farm and the clamour of his wife was to 
take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. 
Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot 
of a tree and share the contents of his wallet with 
Wolf, with whom he sympathised as a feUow- 
sufferer in persecution. "Poor Wolf," he would 
say, " thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it ; but 
never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never 
want a friend to stand by thee ! " Wolf would 
wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, and 
if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he recipro- 
cated the sentiment with all his heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal 
day. Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of 
the highest parts of the Kaatskill Mountains. He 
was after his favourite sport of squirrel-shooting, 
and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed 
with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, 
he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green 
knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned 
the brow of a precipice. 

For some time Rip lay musing ; evening was 
gradually advancing, the mountains began to throw 
their long blue shadows over the valleys, he saw 
that it would be dark long before he could reach 
the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he 
thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van 
Winkle. 

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice 



from a distance, hallooing, "Rip Van Winkle! 
Rip Van Winkle ! " He looked around, but 
could see nothing but a crow winging its soli- 
tary flight across the mountain. He thought 
his fancy must have deceived him, and turned 
again to descend, when he heard the same 
cry ring through the still evening air : " Rip Van 
Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle ! " — at the same time 
Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, 
skulked to his master's side, looking fearfully down 
into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension 
stealing over him ; he looked down anxiously in 
the same direction, and perceived a strange figure 
slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the 
weight of something he carried on his back. He 
was surprised to see any human being in this 
lonely and unfrequented place, but supposing it to 
be some one of the neighbourhood in need of his 
assistance, he hastened down to yield it. 

On nearer approach he was still more surprised 
at the singularity of the stranger's appearance. He 
was a short, square-built old fellow, with thick, 
bushy hair and a grizzled beard. His dress was of 
the antique Dutch fashion — a cloth jerkin strapped 
round the waist — several pairs of breeches, the 
outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows 
of buttons down the sides and bunches at the 
knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg, that 
seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to 
approach and assist him with the load. Though 
rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, 
Rip complied with his usual alacrity, and, 
mutually relieving each other, they clambered up 
a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain 
torrent. As they ascended. Rip every now and 
then heard long, rolling peals. Like distant thunder, 
that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather 
cleft between lofty rocks, toward which their 
rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant, 
but supposing it to be the muttering of one of 
those transient thunder showers which often take 
place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing 
through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a 
small amphitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular 
precipices, over the brinks of which impending 
trees shot their branches, so that you only caught 
glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening 
cloud. During the whole time. Rip and his com- 
panion had laboured on in silence ; for though the 
former marvelled greatly what could be the object 
of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, 
yet there was something strange and incomprehen- 
sible about the unknown that inspired awe and 
checked familiarity. 

On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of 
wonder presented themselves. On a level spot in 
the centre was a company of odd-looking personages 
playing at nine-pins. They were dressed in a 
quaint outlandish fashion : some wore short 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 



39 



doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their 
belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, 
of similar style with those of the guide. Their 
visages, too, were peculiar : one had a large head, 
broad face, and small piggish eyes ; the face of 
another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and 
was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off 
with a little red cockstail. They aU had beards, of 
various shapes and colours. There was one who 
seemed to be the commander. He was a stout, old 
gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance ; he 
wore a laced doublet, broad belt, and hanger, high- 
crowned hat and feather, red stockings and high- 
heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group 
reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish 
painting in the parlour of Dominie Van Schaick, 
the village parson, and which had been brought 
over from Holland at the time of the settlement. 

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that 
though these folks were evidently amusing them- 
selves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the 
most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most 
melancholy party of pleasure he had ever wit- 
nessed. Nothing interrupted the stUlness of the 
scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever 
they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like 
rumbling peals of thunder. 

As Rip and his companion approached them, 
they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared 
at him with such fixed statue-like gaze, and such 
strange, uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that his 
heart turned within him, and his knees smote to- 
gether. His companion now emptied the contents 
of the keg into large flagons and made signs to him 
to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear 
and trembling ; they quaffed the liquor in profound 
silence, and then returned to their game. 

By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. 
He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon 
him, to taste the beverage, which he found had 
much of the flavour of excellent Hollands. He 
was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted 
to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another, 
and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often, 
that at length his senses were overpowered, his 
eyes swam in liis head, his head gradually declined, 
and he fell into a deep sleep. 

On awaking he found himself on the green knoll 
from whence he had first seen the old man of the 
glen. He rubbed his eyes — it was a bright sunny 
morning. The birds were hopping and twittering 
among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling 
aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. 
" Surely," thought Rip, " I have not slept here all 
night." He recalled the occurrences before he fell 
asleep. The strange man with the keg of liquor — 
the mountain ravine — the vsdld retreat among the 
rocks— the woebegone party at nine-pins— the 
flagon—" Oh ! that flagon ! that wicked flaaon ! " 



thought Rip — " what excuse shaU I make to Dame 
Van Winkle?" 

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the 
clean well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old fire- 
lock lying by him, the barrel encrusted with rust, 
the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He 
now suspected that the grave roysterers of the 
mountain had put a trick upon him, and having 
dosed him with bquor, had robbed him of his gun. 
WoH, too, had disappeared, but he might have 
strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He 
whistled after him and shouted his name, but all 
in vain ; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, 
but no dog was to be seen. 

As he approached the village he met a number 
of people, but none whom he knew, which some- 
what surprised him, for he had thought himself 
acquainted with every one in the country round. 
Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from 
that to which he was accustomed. They all stared 
at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever 
they cast eyes upon him, invariably stroked their 
chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture 
induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when 
to his astonishment he found his beard had gro^va 
a foot long ! 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A 
troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting 
after him, and pointing at his grey beard. The 
dogs, too, not one of which he recognised for an 
old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The 
very village was altered; it was larger and more 
populous. There were rows of houses which he 
had never seen before, and those which had been 
his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange 
names were over the doors — strange faces at the 
windows — everything was strange. His mind now 
misgave him ; he began to doubt whether both he 
and the world around him were not bewitched. 
Surely this was his native village, which he had 
left but the day before. There stood the Kaatskill 
Mountains — there ran the silver Hudson at a dis- 
tance — there was every hiU and dale precisely as 
it had always been — Rip was sorely perplexed — 
" That flagon last night," thought he, " has addled 
my poor head sadly ! " 

It was with some difficulty that he found the 
way to his own house, which he approached with 
silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the 
shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the 
house gone to decay — the roof fallen in, the windows- 
shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half- 
starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking 
about it. Rip called him by name, but the cur 
snarled, .showed his teeth, and passed on. This 
was an unkind cut indeed. " My very dog," sighed 
poor Rip, " has forgotten me ! " 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth. 
Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. 



40 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. 
This desolateness overcame all his connubial fears 
— he called loudly for his wife and children — the 
lonely chambers rung for a moment with his voice, 
and then all again was silence. 

He now hurried forth and hastened to his old 
resort, the village inn ; but it too was gone. A 
large rickety wooden building stood in its place, 
with great gaping windows, some of them broken, 
and mended with old hats and petticoats, and over 
the door was painted — "The Union Hotel, by 



beard, his rusty fowHng-piece, his uncouth dress, 
and the army of women and children that had 
gathered at his heels, soon attracted the attention 
of the tavern politicians ; and a short but busy 
little fellow pulled him by the arm, and rising on 
tiptoe, inquired in his ear, "whether he was Federal 
or Democrat '? " Rip was equally at a loss to com- 
prehend the question, when a knowing self-im- 
portant old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made 
his way through the crowd, putting them to the 
right and left with his elbows as he passed, and 




Kip Vaw Winkle's Return. 



Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great tree 
that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of 
yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with 
something on the top that looked like a red night- 
cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was 
a singular assemblage of stars and stripes — all this 
was strange and incomprehensible. He recognised 
on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, 
under which he had smoked so many a peaceful 
pipe ; but even this was singularly metamorphosed. 
The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, 
a sword was held in the hand instead of a sceptre, 
the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and 
underneath was painted in large characters. General 
Washington. 
The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled 



planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm 
akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes 
and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very 
soul, demanded in an austere tone, "What brought 
him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and 
a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed 
a riot in the village ? " — "Alas ! gentlemen," cried 
Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor quiet man, 
a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the 
king, God bless him ! " 

Here a general shout burst from the bystanders 
— " A tory ! a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! 
away with him ! " It was with great difiiculty 
that the self-important man in the cocked hat 
restored order ; and having assumed a tenfold 
austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 



41 



culprit what lie came there for, and whom he was 
seeking ? The poor man humbly assured him that 
be meant no harm, but merely came there in search 
of some of his neighbours, who used to keep about 
the tavern. 

"Well — who are they? name them." 

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, 
" Where's Nicholas Vedder 1 " 

There was a silence for a little while, when an 
old man replied, in a thin piping voice, " Nicholas 
Vedder 1 why he is dead and gone these eighteen 
years ! There was a wooden tombstone in the 
churchyard that used to tell all about him, but that's 
rotted and gone too." 

"Where's Brom Butcher?" 

" Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning 
of the war ; some say he wa." killed at the storm- 
ing of Stoney-Point, others Sc^y he was drowned 
in a squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't 
know, he never came back again.' 

" Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster 1 " 

" He went off to the wars too, \-'as a great 
militia general, and is now in Congress." 

Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad 
changes in his home and friends, and finding 
himself thus alone in the world. Every answer 
puzzled him, too, by treating of such enormous 
lapses of time, and of matters which he could not 
understand : war — congress — Stoney - Point ; — he 
had no courage to ask after any more friends, but 
cried out in despair, " Does nobody here know 
Rip Van Winkle 1 " 

"Oh, Rip Van Winkle ! " exclaimed two or three, 
" Oh, to be sure ! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, 
leaning against the tree." 

Rip looked and beheld a precise counterpart of 
himself, as he went up the mountain : apparently 
as lazy, and certainly as ragged . The poor fellow 
was now completely confounded. He doubted his 
own identity, and whether he was himself or 
another man. In the midst of his bewilderment 
the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, 
and what was his name 1 

" God knows ! " exclaimed he at his wit's end ; 
"I'm not myself — I'm somebody else — that's me 
yonder — no — that's somebody else got into my 
shoes — I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on 
the mountain, and they've changed my gun, and 
everything's changed and I am changed, and I 
can't tell what's my name, or who I am ! " 

The bystanders began now to look at each other, 
nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against 
their foreheads. There was a whisper also about 
securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from 
doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which 
the self-important man in the cocked hat retired 
with some precipitation. At this critical moment 
a fresh comely woman pressed through the throng 



to get a peep at the grey-bearded man. She had 
a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at 
his looks, began to cry. " Hush, Rip," cried she, 
"hush, you little fool, the old man won't hurt 
you." The name of the child, the air of the 
mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train 
of recollections in his mind. " What is your name, 
my good woman 1 " asked lie. 

"Judith Gardenier." 

" And your father's name 1 " 

"Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van Winkle ; 
it's twenty years since he went away from home 
with his gun and never has been heard of since — 
his dog came home without him ; but whether he 
shot himself or was carried away by the Indians, 
nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl." 

Rip had but one question more to ask ; but he 
put it with a faltering voice : 

" Where's your mother 1 " 

" Oh, she too had died but a short time since ; 
she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a 
New-England pedlar." 

There was a drop of comfort at least in this 
intelligence. The honest man could contain him- 
self no longer. He caught his daughter and her 
child in his arms. " I am your father ! " cried he 
I — " Young Rip Van Winkle once — old Rip Van 
Winkle now !— does nobody know poor Rip Van 
Winkle?" 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering 
out from among the crowd, put her hand to her 
brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment, 
exclaimed, " Sm-e enough ! it is Rip Van Winkle — 
it is himself ! Welcome home again, old neighbour. 
Why, where have you been these twenty long 
years 1 " 

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty 
years had been to him but as one night. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion 
of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly 
advancing up the road. He was a descendant of 
the historian of that name, who wrote one of the 
earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the 
most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well 
versed in all the wonderful events and traditions 
of the neighbourhood. He recollected Eip at once, 
and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory 
manner. He assured the company that it was a 
fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, 
that the Kaatskill Mountains had always been 
haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed 
that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first dis- 
coverer of the river and countiy, kept a kind of 
vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the 
Half-moon, being permitted in this way to revisit 
the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian 
eye upon the river, and the great city called by his 
name. 



42 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 




THE FALCON. 



s-^^HERE lived in Florence a young 
"^^ man, called Federigo Alberigi, who 
^ surpassed all tlie youth of Tuscany 
in feats of arms, and in accomplished 
manners. He (for gallant men will 
fall in love) became enamoured of 
Monna Giovanna, at that time con- 
sidered the finest woman in Florence; 
and that he might inspire her with a 
reciprocal passion, he squandered his fortune at tilts 
and tournaments, in entertainments and presents. 
But the lady, who was virtuous as she was beau- 
tiful, could on no account be prevailed on to return 
his love. While he lived thus extravagantly, and 
without the means of recruiting his coffers, 
poverty, the usual attendant of the thoughtless, 
came on apace ; his money was spent, and nothing 
remained to him but a small farm, barely sufficient 
for his subsistence, and a falcon, which was, how- 
ever, the finest in the world. When he found it 
impossible, therefore, to live longer in town, he 
retired to his little farm, where he went a-birding 
in his leisure hours ; and disdaining to ask favours 
of any one, he submitted patiently to his poverty, 
while he cherished in secret a hopeless passion. 

It happened about this time that the husband of 
Monna Giovanna died, leaving a great fortune to 
their only son, who was yet a youth ; and that the 
boy came along with his mother to spend the sum- 
mer months in the country (as our custom usually 
is), at a villa in the neighbourhood of Federigo's 
farm. In this way he became acquainted with 
Federigo, and began to delight in birds and dogs, 
and, having seen his falcon, he took a great longing 
for it, but was afraid to ask it of him when he saw 
how highly he prized it. This desire, however, so 
much affected the boy's spirits, that he fell sick; 
and his mother, who doted upon this her only 
child, became alarmed, and to soothe him pressed 
him again and again to ask whatever he wished, 
and promised that, if it were possible, he should 
have all he desired. The youth at last confessed, 
that if he had the falcon he wou.ld soon be well 
again. When the lady heard this, she began to 
consider what she should do. She knew that 
Federigo had long loved her, and had received 
from her nothing but coldness ; and how could 
she ask the falcon, which she heard was the finest 
in the world, and which was now his only conso- 
lation ? Could she be so cruel as' to deprive him of 
his last remaining support 1 Perplexed with these 
thoughts, which the full belief that she should 
have the bird if she asked it did not relieve, she 
knew not what to think, or how to return her son 
an answer. A mother's love, however, at last 



prevailed ; she resolved to satisfy him, and deter- 
mined, whatever might be the consequence, not to 
send, but to go herself and procure the falcon. 
She told her son, therefore, to take courage, and 
think of getting better, for that she would herself 
go on the morrow, and fetch what he desired ; and 
the hope was so agreeable to the boy, that he 
began to mend apace. On the next morning 
Monna Giovanna, having taken another lady along 
with her, went as if for amusement to the little 
cabin of Federigo and inquired for him. It was 
not the birding season, and he was at work in his 
garden ; when he heard, therefore, that Monna 
Giovanna was calling upon him, he ran with joyful 
surprise to the door. She, on the other hand,, 
when she saw him coming, advanced with delicatft 
politeness ; and when he had respectfully saluted 
her, she said, " All happiness attend you, Federigo.^ 
I am come to repay you for the loss you have- 
suffered from loving me too well, for this lady 
and I intend to dine with you in an ea.sy way this, 
forenoon." To this Federigo humbly answered, 
" I do not remember, madam, having suffered any 
loss at your hands; but, on the contrary, have 
received so much good, that if ever I had any 
worth, it sprung from you, and from the love with, 
which you inspire me. And this generous visit 
to your poor host is much more dear to me than 
would be the spending again of what I have 
already spent." Having said this, he invited them 
respectfully into the house, and from thence con- 
ducted them to the garden, where, having nobody 
else to keep them company, he requested that they 
would allow the labourer's wife to do her best to 
amuse them while he went to order dinner. 

Federigo, however great his poverty, had not 
yet learned all the prudence which the loss of 
fortune might have taught him ; and it thus 
happened that he had nothing in the house with 
which he could honourably entertain the lady for 
whose love he had formerly given so many enter- 
tainments. Ciu'sing his evil fortune, therefore, he 
stood like one beside himself, and looked in vain 
for money or pledge. The hour was already late, 
and his desire extreme to find something worthy 
of his mistress ; he felt repugnant, too, to ask from 
his own labourer. While he was thus perplexed 
he chanced to cast his eyes upon his fine falcon, 
which was sitting upon a bar in the ante-chamber. 
Having no other resoirrce, therefore, he took it into 
his hand, and finding it fat, he thought it would 
be proper for such a lady. He accordingly pulled 
its neck without delay, and gave it to a little girl 
to be plucked ; and having put it upon a spit, he 
made it be carefully roasted. He then covered 



THE FALCON". 



43 



the table with a beautiful cloth, a wreck of his 
former splendour ; and everything being ready, he 
returned to the garden, to tell the lady and her 
companion that dinner was served. They ac- 
cordingly went in and sat down to table with 
Federigo, and ate the good falcon without know- 
ing it. 

When they had finished dinner, and spent a 
short while in agreeable conversation, the lady 
thought it time to tell Federigo for what she had 
come. She said to him, therefore, in a gentle tone, 
" Federigo, when you call to mind your past life, 
and recollect myvirtue, which perhaps you called 
coldness and cruelty, I doubt not but that you 
will be astonished at my presumption, when I tell 
you the principal motive of my visit. But had 
you children, and knew how great a love one bears 
them, I am sure you would in part excuse me ; and 
although you have them not, I, who have an only 
child, cannot resist the feelings of a mother. By 
the strength of these am I constrained, in spite of 
my inclination, and contrary to propriety and duty, 
to ask a thing which I know is with reason dear 
to you, for it is your only delight and consolation 
in your misfortunes : that gift is your falcon, for 
-which my son has taken so great a desire, that 
unless he obtain it, I am afraid his illness wiU 
increase, and that I shall lose him. I beseech you 
to give it me, therefore, not by the love which you 
bear me (for to that you owe nothing), but by 
the nobleness of your nature, which you have 
shown in nothing more than in your generosity ; 
and I will remain eternally your debtor for my 
son's life, which your gift will be the means of 
preserving." 

When Federigo heard the lady's request, and 
knew how impossible it was to grant it, he burst 
into tears, and was unable to make any reply. 
The lady imagined that this arose from grief at 
the thought of losing his favourite, and showed 
his unwillingness to part with it ; nevertheless she 
waited patiently for his answer. He at length 
said, " Since it first pleased Heaven, madam, that 
I should place my affections on you, I have found 
Fortune unkind to me in many things, and have 
often accused her ; but all her former unkindness 
has been trifling compared with what she has now 
done me. How can I ever forgive her, therefore, 
when I remember, that you, who never deigned to 



visit me when I was rich, have come to my poor 
cottage to ask a favour which she has cruelly 
prevented me from bestowing. The cause of this 
I shall briefly tell you. When I found that in 
your goodness you proposed to dine with me, and 
when I considered your excellence, I thought it 
my duty to honour you with more precious food 
than is usually given to others. Recollecting my 
falcon, therefore, and its worth, I deemed it 
worthy food, and accordingly made it be roasted 
and served up for dinner ; but when I find that 
you wished to get it in another way, I shall never 
be consoled for having it not in my power to serve 
you." Having said this, he showed them the 
wings, and the feet, and the bill, as evidences of 
the truth of what he had told them. When the 
lady had heard and seen these things, she chided 
him for having kiUed so fine a bird as food for a 
woman, but admired in secret that greatness of 
mind which poverty had been unable to subdue. 
Then, seeing that she could not have the falcon, 
and becoming alarmed for the safety of her chUd, 
she thanked Federigo for the honourable enter- 
tainment he had given them, and returned home 
in a melancholy mood. Her son, on the other 
hand, either from grief at not getting the falcon, 
or from a disease occasioned by it, died a few days 
after, leaving his mother plunged in the deepest 
aifliction. 

Monna Giovanna was left very rich, and when 
she had for some time mourned her loss, being 
importuned by her brothers to marry again, she 
began to reflect on the merit of Federigo, and on 
the last instance of his generosity disjilayed in 
killing so fine a bird to do her honour. She told 
her brothers, therefore, that she would marry since 
they desired it, but that her only choice would be 
Federigo Alberigi. They laughed when they 
heard this, and asked her how she could think of 
a man who had nothing ; but she answered, that 
she would rather have a man without money, than 
money without a man. When her brothers, who 
had long known Federigo, saw, therefore, how her 
wishes pointed, they consented to bestow her upon 
him vsath all her wealth ; and Federigo, with a 
wife so excellent and so long beloved, and riches 
equal to his desires, showed that he had learned 
to be a better steward, and long enjoyed true 
happiness. 




44 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



A QUAETEE HOUE CHIME. 

[From Oliver Wendell Holmes.] 

I I'D some men the task of being serious comes very light, while others seem to be blessed 
by nature with a genuine humorous side to their dispositions. So with writers : some are 
8| at their best in a sad or pathetic vein, some never put pen to paper without inditing 
iM^ something laughter-begetting and full of mirth. It seems, however, to be a peculiarity of 
a small section, to be able to blend the humorous and pathetic, often in so admirable a 
T fashion that the eyes of the reader are frequently moistened by a tear, which for the life 
] of him he cannot easily explain, whether it was brought there by the mirth or the sadness 
in the writers' works. 

American authors have this peculiarity strongly; this mingling of the sad and ridiculous, and 
in no one is it more strongly developed than in Oliver Wendell Holmes, who is best known among 
us for his "Autocrat of the Breakfast Table," and his "Professor." He has, however, written some 
exquisite verses from time to time, chief among which is the following curious blending of mirth and 
sadness : — 




I saw him once before 
As he passed by the door, 

And again 
The pavement-stones resound 
As he totters o'er the gTOund 

With his cane. 

They say that in his prime. 
Ere the pruning-knife of Time 

Cut him down, 
Not a better man was found 
By the crier on his round 

Through the town. 

But now he walks the streets, 
And he looks at all he meets 

So forlorn ; 
And he .shakes his feeble head, 
That it seems as if he said, 

" They are gone ! " 

The mossy marbles rest 

On the lips that he has pressed 

In their bloom ; 
And the names he loved to hear 
Have been cai'ved for many a year 

On the tomb. 



My grandmamma has said, — 
Poor old lady ! she is dead 

Long ago, — 
That he had a Roman nose. 
And his cheek was like a rose 

In the snow ; 

But now his nose is thin, 
And it rests upon his chin 

Like a staff ; 
And a crook is in his back, 
And a melancholy crack 

In his laugh. 

I know it is a sin 
For me to sit and grin 

At him here. 
But the old three-cornered hat, 
And the breeches, and all that, 

Are so queer ! 

And if I should live to be 
The last leaf upon the tree 

In the Spring — 
Let them smile as I do now 
At the old forsaken bough 

Where I cling. 



We have the same mingling of quaint and humorous conceits blended together in that pleasant 
ballad, which is so picturesque that you seem to see the embossed old piece of tarnished silver, as 
the story runs : — 



This ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good 
old times, 

Of joyous days and jolly nights, and merry Christ- 
mas chimes ; 

They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, 
and true. 

That dipp'd their ladle in the punch when this old 
bowl was new. 



A Spanish galleon brought the bar — so runs the 

ancient tale ; 
'Twas hammer'd by an Antwerp smith, whose arm 

was like a flail ; 
And now and then between the strokes, for fear 

his strength should fail. 
He wiped his brow, and quafTd a cup of good old 

Flemish ale. 



A QUARTER HOUR CHIME. 



'Twas purchased by an English squire to please his 

loving dame, 
Who saw the cherubs and conceived a longing for 

the same ; 




' This ancient silver bowl. 



."^d oft as on the ancient stock another twig was 

found, 
^Twas fill'd with caudle spiced and hot, and handed 

smoking round. 



'Twas on a dreary winter's eve, the night was 

closing dim, 
When old Miles Standish took the bowl, and fill'd 

it to the brim ; 
The little captain stood and stirr'd the posset with 

his sword, 
And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about 

the board. 

He pour'd the fiery Hollands in — the man that 

never fear'd — 
He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped 

his yellow beard ; 
And one by one the musketeers — the men that 

fought and pray'd — 
All drank as 'twere their mother's milk, and not a 

man afraid. 

That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming 

eagle flew — 
He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's 

wild halloo ; 
And there the sachem learn'd the rule he taught 

to kith and kin, 
" Run from the white man when you find he 

smells of Hollands gin ! " 



But, changing hands, it reach'd it length a Paiitan 

divine, 
Who used to follow Timotln , iiid t ikc i little wine, 
But hated punch and piehcy, and so it was 

perhaps. 
He went to Leyden, wheie he found (.on\entitlts 

and schnaps. 





The men that focght ahd pkat d. 



And then, of course, you know what's next, it left 

the Dutchman's shore 
With those that in the Mayflower came, a hundred 

souls and more. 
Along with all their furniture, to fill their new 

abodes — 
To judge by what is still on hand, at least a 

hundred loads. 



A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their 

leaves and snows, 
A thousand rubs had flatten'd down each little 

cherub's nose. 
When once again the bowl was fill'd, but not in 

mirth or joy — 
'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her 

parting boy. 



46 



GLEANINGS FEOM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



" Drink, John," she said, " 'twill do you good ; 

poor child, you'll never bear 
This -working in the dismal trench, out in the 

midnight air ; 
And if — God bless me! — you were hurt, 'twould 

keep away the chill ; " 
So John did drink — and well he wrought that 

night at Bunker's Hill ! 

I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old 

English cheer ; 
I tell you, 'twas a pleasant thought to bring its 

symbol here : 
'Tis but the fool that loves excess ; hast thou a 

drunken soul 1 



I love the memory of the past — its press'd yet 

fragrant flowers — 
The moss that clothes its broken walls — the ivy on 

its towers ; 
Nay, this poor bauble it bequeath'd, my eyes grow 

moist and dim, 
To think of all the vanish'd joys that danced 

around its brim. 

Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight 

to me ; 
The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid 

be ; 
And may the cherubs on its face protect me from 

the sin 



Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver That dooms one to those dreadful words— "My 
bowl ! I dear, where have you been 1 " 

But Oliver Wendell Holmes can laugh, and that too, freely — laugh with his pen, as when, in 
his poem " Evening," supposed to be written by a tailor, he says : — 

Day hath put on his jacket, and around 
His burning bosom buttoned it with stars. 

Or, when he describes the miseries inflicted by music grinders as fervently as a man who has been 
constantly pestered by organs, and says : — 



But hark ! the air again is still, 

The music all is ground. 
And silence, like a poultice, comes 

To heal the blows of sound ; 
It cannot be — it is, it is — 

A hat is going round ! 

No ! Pay the dentist when he leaves 

A fracture in your jaw, 
And pay the owner of the bear 

That stunned you with his paw, 
And buy the lobster that has had 

Your knuckles in his claw ; 



But if you are a portly man, 
Put on your fiercest frown, 

And talk about a constable 
To turn them out of town ; 

Then close your sentence with an oath, 
And shut the window down ! 

And if you are a slender man, 

Not big enough for that, 
Or if you cannot make a speech 

Because you are a flat, 
Go very quietly and drop 

A button in the hat ! 



In fact, speaking of laughter, he goes so far in one of his poems as to say of his servant, who 
read some lines : — 



He read the second, the grin grew broad, 
And shot from ear to ear ; 
He read the third, a chuckling noise 
I now began to hear. 

The fourth, he broke into a roar, 
The fifth his waistband split ; 



The sixth he burst four buttons oft", 
And tumbled in a fit. 

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eyes, 
I watched that wretched man. 
And since, I never dare to write 
As funny as I can. 



All the same, though, he ventures to be very humorous in his description of that masterpiece of 
mechanism, that was designed and built from beginning to end by the Deacon, to whose genius is 
due " The Wonderful One-hoss Shay." 



A QUARTER HOUR CHIME. 



47 



Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss-shay, 

That was built in such a logical way, 

It ran a hundred years to a day, 

And then, of a sudden it — ah ! but stay, 

I'U tell you what happen'd without delay. 

Soaring the parson into fits, 

Frightening people out of their wits — 

Have you ever heard of that, I say 1 



Seventeen hundred and fifty-five : 
Geo7-gius Secimdus was then alive — 
Snuffy old drone from the German hive ! 
That was the year when Lisbon-town 
Saw the earth open and gulp her down. 
And Braddock's army was done so brown. 
Left without a scalp to its crown. 
It was on the terrible earthquake-day 
That the deacon finished the one-hoss-shay. 
Now in building of chaises, I tell you what. 
There is always somewhere a weakest spot — 
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, 
In panel, or cross-bar, or floor, or sill. 
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace — lurking still. 
Find it somewhere you must and will, 
Above or below, or within or without ; 
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, 
A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out. 

But the deacon swore (as deacons do, 

With an " I dew vum," or an " I tell yeou " ) 

He would build one shay to beat the taown 

'N' the keounty, 'n' all the kentry raoun' ; 

It should be so built that it couldn't break daown : 

" Fur," said the deacon, " 't's mighty plain 

That the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain ; 

'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, is only jest 

To make that place uz strong uz the rest." 

So the deacon inquired of the village folk 

Where he could find the strongest oak. 

That couldn't be split, nor bent, nor broke — 

That was for spokes and floor and sills ; 

He sent for lancewood to make the thills ; * 

The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees ; 

The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese. 

But lasts like iron for things like these ; 

The hubs of logs from the " settler's ellum " — 

Last of its timber — they couldn't sell 'em ; 

Never an axe had seen their chips. 

And the wedges flew from between their lips. 

Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips ; 

Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, 

Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too. 

Steel of the finest, bright and blue ; 

Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide ; 



Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide 
Found in the pit when the tanner died. 
That was the way he " put her througli." 
" There ! " said the deacon, " naow she'll dew 1 " 

Do ! I'll tell you, I rather guess 

She was a wonder, and nothing less. 

Colts grew horses, beards turned grey, 

Deacon and deaconess dropp'd away, 

Children and grand-children — where were they ? 

But there stood the stout old one-hoss-shay, 

As fresh as on Lisbon earthquake-day ! 

Eighteen Hundred : it came and found 
The deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. 
Eighteen hundred increased by ten : 
" Hahnsum kerridge " they call'd it then. 
Eighteen hundred and twenty came : 
Running as usual much the same. 
Thirty and forty at last arrive, 
And then came fifty and fifty-five. 

Little of all we value here 

Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year 

Without both feeling and looking queer. 

In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth. 

So far as I know, but a tree and truth, 

(This is a moral that runs at large ; 

Take it. You're welcome. No extra charge). 

First of November— the earthquake day : 

There are traces of age in the one-hoss-shay, 

A general flavour of mild decay. 

But nothing local, as one may say. 

There couldn't be, for the deacon's art 

Had made it so like in every part 

That there wasn't a chance for one to start. 

For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, 

And the floor was just as strong as the sills, 

And the panels just as strong as the floor, 

And the whippletree f neither less nor more 

And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore 

And spring, and axe, and hub J encore. 

And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt. 

In another hour it will be worn out. 

First of November, 'fifty-five : 

This morning the parson takes a drive. 

Now, small boys, get out of the way ! 
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss-shay. 
Drawn by a rat-tail'd, ewe-neck 'd bay. 
" Huddup ! " said the parson. Off went thoj 

The parson was working his Sunday's text. 
Had got to fifthly, and stopp'd perplex'd 
At what the — Moses — was coming next. 
AH at once the horse stood still. 
Close by the meet'n' -house on the hilL 



t Splinter-bar. 



X Nave. 



48 



GLEANINGS FKOM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



First a shiver, and then a thrill, 
Tlien something decidedly like a spill — 
And the parson was sitting upon a rock. 
At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock — 
Just the hour of the earthquake-shock ! 
"What do you think the parson found, 
When he got up and stared around ? — 
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound. 



As if it had been to the mill and ground ' 
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, 
How it went to pieces all at once — 
All at once, and nothing first. 
Just as bubbles do when they burst. 

End of the wonderful one-hoss-shaj . 
Logic is logic — that's all I say. 




End of the wonderful one ho«s shay 




LOVE IN A BALLOON. 

[By Theyke Smith.] 



[('BT^OME time ago I was staying with Sir 

i^^ George P , P House, "P 

shire. Great number of people there 
— all kinds of amusements going on. 
Driving, riding, fishing, shooting, 
everything in fact. Sir George's daughter, 
Fanny, was often my companion in these 
expeditions, and I was considerably struck 
with her. She could ride like Ninirod, she could 
drive like Jehu, she could row like Charon, she 
could dance like Terpsichore, she could run like 
Diana, .she walked like Juno, and she look like 
Venus. I've even seen her smoke. 

You should have heard that girl whistle and 
laugh — you should have heard her laugh. She 
was truly a delightful companion. We rode 
together, drove together, fished together, walked 
together, danced together, sang together ; I called 
her Fanny, and she called me Tom. All this 
could have but one termination, you know. I fell 
in love with her, and determined to take the first 
opportunity of proposing. So, one day, when we 
were out together fishing on the lake, I went down 
on my knees amongst the gudgeons, seized her 
hand, pressed it to my waistcoat, and in burning 
accents entreated her to become my wife. 

"Don't be a fool!" she said. "Now drop it, 
do ! and put me a fresh worm on." 

" Oh ! Fanny," I exclaimed ; " don't talk about 
worms when marriage is in question. Only 
say- — " 

" I tell you what it is now," she replied angrily, 
"if you don't drop it, I'L. pitch you out of the 
boat." 

I did not drop it ; and I give you my word of 
honour, with a sudden shove she sent me flying 



into the water ; then seizing the sculls, with a 
stroke or two she put several yards between us, 
and burst into a fit of laughter that fortunately 
prevented her from going any further. I swam up 
and climbed into the boat. " Jenkyns ! " said I, 
to myself, " Revenge ! revenge ! " I disguised 
my feelings. I laughed — hideous mockery — I 
laughed. Pulled to the bank, went to the house, 
and changed my clothes. When I appeared at 
the dinner table, I perceived that every one had 
been told of my ducking — universal laughter 
greeted me. During dinner Fanny repeatedly 
whispered to her neighbour, and glanced at 
me. Smothered laughter invariably followed. 
"Jenkyns ! " said I, " Revenge ! " The opportunity 
soon offered. There was to be a balloon ascent 
from the lawn, and Fanny had tormented her 
father into letting her ascend with the aeronaut. 
I in.stantly took my plans ; bribed the aeronaut; 
learned from him the management of the balloon, 
though I understood that pretty well before, and 
calmly awaited the result. The day came. The 
weather was fine. The balloon was inflated. 
Fanny was in the car. Everything was ready, 
when the aeronaut suddenly fainted. He was 
carried into the house, and Sir George accom- 
panied him to see that he was properly attended 
to. Fanny was in despair. 

" Am I to lose my air expedition 1 " she ex- 
claimed, looking over the side of the car. "Some- 
one understands the management of this thing, 
surely 1 Nobody ! Tom ! " she called out to me. 
" you understand it, don't you 1 " 

" Perfectly," I answered. 

" Come along then," she cried, " be quick ; 
before papa comes back." 



LOVE IN A BALLOON. 



49 



The company in general endeavoured to dis- 
suade her from her project, but of course in vain. 
After a decent show of hesitation, I climbed into 
the car. The balloon was cast off, and rapidly 
sailed heavenward. There was scarcely a breath 
of wind, and we rose almost straight up. We rose 
above the house, and she laughed and said : 

" How jolly !" 

We were higher than the highest trees, and she 
smiled, and said it was very kind of me to come 
with her. We were so high that the people below 
looked mere specks, and she hoped that I 
thoroughly understood the management of the 
balloon. Now was my time. 



pleasantly ; " only with love for you. Oh, Fanny, 
I adore you ! say you will be my wife. ' 

"I gave you an answer the other day," she 
replied ; " one which I should have thought you 
would have remembered," she added, laughing a 
little, notwithstanding her terror. 

"I remember it perfectly," I answered; "but 
I intend to have a different reply to that. You 
see those five sand-bags, I shall ask you five times 
to become my wife. Every time you refuse I 
shall throw over a sand-bag. So, lady fair, as the 
cabmen would say, reconsider your decision, and 
consent to become Mrs. Jenkyns." 

" I won't ! " she said, " I never will ! and let me 




' You SEE THOSE FIVE SAND BAGS ? " 



" I understand the going up part," I answered ; 
" to come down is not so easy," and I whistled. 

" What do you mean 1 " she cried. 

"Why, when you want to go up faster, you throw 
some sand overboard," I replied, suiting the action 
to the word. 

"Don't be foolish, Tom," she said, trying to 
appear quite calm and indifferent, but trembling 
uncommonly. 

"Foolish !" I said. " Oh, dear no ! but whether 
I go along the ground or up in the air I like to go 
the pace, and so do you, Fanny, I know. Go it, 
you cripples ! " and over went another sand-bag. 

" Why, you're mad, surely," she whispered in 
utter terror, and tried to reach the bags, but I kept 
her back. 

" Only with love, my dear," I answered, smiling 

G 



tell you, that you are acting in a very ungentle- 
manly way to press me thus." 

"You acted in a very ladylike way the other 
day, did you not," I rejoined, " when you knocked 
me out of the boat 1 " She laughed again, for she 
was a plucky girl, and no mistake — a very plucky 
girl. " However," I went on, " it's no use arguing 
about it — will you promise to give me your hand?" 

" Never !" she answered ; " I'll go to Ursa Major 
first, though I've got big enough bear here, in all 
conscience. Stay, you'd prefer Aquarius, wouldn't 
you 1 " 

She looked so pretty that I was almost inclined 
to let her off (I was only trying to frighten her, of 
course — I knew how high we could go safely well 
enough, and how valuable the life of Jenkyns was 
to his country) ; but resolution is one of the strong 



50 



GLEANINGS FEOM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



points of my character, and when I've begun a 
thing I like to carry it through, so I threw over 
another sand-bag, and whistled the Dead March 
in Saul. 

" Come, Mr. Jenkyns," she said, suddenly, 
"come, Tom, let us descend now, and I'll promise 
to say nothing whatever about all this." 

I continued the execution of the Dead March. 

"But if you do not begin the descent at once I'll 
tell papa the moment I set foot on the ground." 

I laughed, seized another bag, and, looking 
steadily at her, said : 

" Will you promise to give me your hand 1 " 

" I've answered you already," was the reply. 

Over went the sand, and the solemn notes of the 
Dead March resounded through the car. 

" I thought you were a gentleman," said Fanny, 
rising up in a terrible rage from the bottom of the 
car where she had been sitting, and looking per- 
fectly beautiful in her wrath; "I thought you were 
a gentleman, but I find I was mistaken ; why a 
chimney-sweeper would not treat a lady in such a 
way. Do you know that you are risking your own 
life as well as mine by your madness 1 " 

I explained that I adored her so much that to 
die in her company would be perfect bliss, so that 
I begged she would not consider my feelings at all. 
She dashed her beautiful hair from her face, and 
standing perfectly erect, looking like the Goddess 
of Anger, or Boadicea — if you can fancy that per- 
sonage in a balloon — she said : 

"I command you to begin the descent this 
moment." 

The Dead March, whistled in a manner essentially 
gay and lively, was the only response. After a few 
minutes' silence, I took up another bag and 
.said : 

" We are getting rather high ; if you do not decide 
soon, we shall have Mercury coming to tell us we 
are trespassing — will you promise me your hand? " 

She sat in sulky silence in the bottom of the 
car. I threw over the sand. Then she tried 
another plan. Throwing herself upon her knees, 
and bursting into tears, she said : 

" Oh, forgive me for what I did the other day ! 
It was very wrong, and I am very sorry. Take 
me home and I will be a sister to you." 

" Not a wife 1 " said I. 

" I can't ! I can't ! " she answered. 

Over went the fourth bag, and I began to think 
that she would beat me, after all ; for I did not 
like the idea of going much higher. I would not 
give in just yet, however. I whistled for a few 
moments, to give her time for reflection, and then 
said : 

" Fanny, they say that marriages are made in 
Heavein — if you do not take care, ours will be 
solemnised there." 



I took up the fifth bag. 

"Come," I said, "my wife in life, or my com- 
panion in death ! Which is it to bel" and I patted 
the sand-bag in a cheerful manner.. She hid her 
face in her hands but did not answer. I -nursed 
the bag in my arms as if it had been a baby. 

" Come, Fanny, give me your promise ! " 

I could hear her sobs. I'm the most soft-hearted 
creature breathing, and would not pain any living 
thing, and I confess she had beaten me. I forgave 
her the ducking ; I forgave her for rejecting me. 
I was on the point of flinging the bag back into 
the car, and saying: "Dearest Fanny ! forgive me 
for frightening you. Marry whomsoever you will. 
Give your lovely hand to the lowest groom in your 
stables, — endow with your priceless beauty the 
Chief of the Panki-wanki Indians. Whatever hap- 
pens, Jenkyns is your slave — your dog — your foot- 
stool. His duty henceforth is to go whithersoever 
you shall order — to do whatever you shall com- 
mand." I was just on the point of saying this, I 
repeat, when Fanny suddenly looked up and said, 
with a queerish expression upon her face : 

" You need not throw that last bag over ; I 
promise to give you my hand." 

" With all your heart V I asked, quickly. 

" With all my heart," she answered, with the 
same strange look. 

I tossed the bag into tlie bottom of the car, and 
opened the valve. The balloon descended. 

Will you believe it 1 When we had reached the 
ground, and the balloon had been given over to itj 
recovered master : when I had helped Fanny ten- 
derly to the earth, and turned towards her to 
receive anew the promise of her affection and her 
hand ; will you believe it 1 she gave me a box on 
the ear, that upset me against the car, and run- 
ning to her father, when he came up, she related to 
him what she called my disgraceful conduct in the 
balloon, and ended by informing me that all of her 
hand I was likely to get had been already bestowed 
upon my ear, which she assured me had been given 
with all her heart. 

" You villain ! " said Sir George, advancing 
towards me with a horse-whip in his hand. " You 
villain ' I've a good mind to break this over your 
back." 

" Sir George," said I, " villain and Jenkyns must 
never be coupled in the same sentence ; and as for 
the breaking of this whip, I'll relieve you of the 
trouble," and, snatching it from his hand, I broke it 
in two, and threw the pieces on the ground. "And 
now I shall have the honour of wishing you a good 
morning. Miss P . I forgive you, and I retire." 

Now I ask you whether any specimen of female 
treachery equal to that has ever come within your 
experience, and whether any excuse can be made 
for such conduct? 



THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM. 



51 




THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM. 

[By Jane Tatlok ] 



'N old clock tliat had stood for fifty 
years in a farmer's kitclien without 
giving its owner any cause of com- 
plaint, early one summer's morning, 
before the family were stirring, sud- 
denly stopped. 
Upon this the dial-plate, if we may 
credit the fable, changed countenance with 
alarm ; the hands made a vain eflfort to continue 
their course ; the wheels remained motionless with 
surprise ; the weights hung speechless ; each 
member felt disposed to lay the blame on the 
others. At length the dial instituted a formal 
inquiry as to the cause of the stagnation, when 
hands, wheels, weights, with one voice protested 
their innocence. But now a faint tick was heard 
below from the pendulum, who thus spoke : — 

"I confess myself to be the sole cause of the 
present stoppage ; and I am willing, for the 
general satisfaction, to assign my reasons. The 
truth is, that I am tired of ticking." Upon hear- 
ing this, the old clock became so enraged, that it 
v.-as on the very point of striking. 

" Lazy wire ! " exclaimed the dial-plate, holding 
up its hands. 

" Very good," replied the pendulum : " it is 
vastly easy for you. Mistress Dial, who have 
always, as everybody knows, set yourself up 
above me, — it is vastly easy for you, I say, to 
accuse other people of laziness ! You, who have 
had nothing to do all the days of your life but to 
stare people in the face, and to amuse yourself 
with watching all that goes on in the kitchen ! 
Think, I beseech you, how you would like to be 
shut up for life in this dark closet, and to wag 
backwards and forwards year after year as I do." 

"As to that," said the dial, "is there not a 
window in your house, on purpose for you to look 
through '? " 

"For all that," resumed the pendulum, "it is 
very dark here : and, although there is a window, 
I dare not stop even for an instant, to look out at 
it. Besides, I am really tired of my way of life ; 
and, if you wish, I'll tell you how I took this 
disgust at my employment. I happened this 
morning to be calculating how many times I 
should have to tick in the course only of the ne.xt 
twenty-four hours : perhaps ■ some of you above 
there can give me the exact sum." 

The minute hand, being quich at figures, 
presently replied, "Eighty -six thousand four 
hundred times." 



"Exactly so," replied the pendulum ; "well, 1 
appeal to you all, if the very thought of this was 
not enough to fatigue one ; and when I began to 
multiply the strokes of one day by those of months 
and years, really it is no wonder if I felt dis- 
couraged at the prospect ; so, after a great deal of 
reasoning and hesitation, thinks I to myself, I'll 
stop." 

'The dial could scarcely keep its countenance 
during this harangue ; but, resiuning its gravity, 
thus replied : — 

"Dear Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished 
that such a useful, industrious person as yourself 
should have been overcome by this sudden notion. 
It is true you have done a great deal of work in 
your time ; so have we all, and are likely to do ; 
which, although it may fatigue us to think of, the 
question is whether it will fatigue us to do. 
Would you now do me the favour to give about 
half-a-dozen strokes, to illustrate my argument 1 " 

The pendulum complied, and ticked six times at 
its usual pace. " Now," resumed the dial, " may I 
be allowed to inciuire, if that exertion was at all 
fatiguing or disagreeable to you 1 " 

" Not in the least," replied the pendulum ; " it 
is not of six strokes that I complain, nor of sixty, 
but of millions." 

"Very good," replied the dial; "but recollect, 
that though you may think of a million strokes in 
an instant, you are required to execute but one ; 
and that, however often you may hereafter have 
to swing, a moment will always be given you to 
swing in." 

" That consideration staggers me, I confess," 
said the pendulum. 

" Then 1 hope," resumed the dial-plate, " wc shall 
all immediately return to our duty ; for the maids 
will lie in bed till noon if we stand idling thus." 

Upon this the weights, who had never been 
accused of light conduct, used all their influence 
in urging him to proceed ; when, as with one 
consent, the y,'heels began to turn, the hands 
began to move, the pendulum began to swing, and, 
to its credit, ticked as loud as ever ; while a red 
beam of the rising sun, that streamed through a 
hole in the kitchen-shutter, shining full upon the 
dial-plate, it brightened up as if nothing had been 
the matter. 

When the farmer came down to breakfast that 
morning, upon looking at the clock he declared 
that his watch had gained half-an-hour in the 
night. 



52 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



THE BALLAD OP CAEMILHAN. 

[By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.] 



MT Stralsund, by the Baltic Sea, 
Within the sandy bar, 

^^^dc> At sunset of a summer's day. 
Ready for sea, at anchor lay 
The good ship Valdemar. 

The sunbeams danced upon the waves. 

And played along her side, 
And through the cabin-windows streamed 
In ripples of golden light, that seemed 

The ripple of the tide. 

There sat the captain with his friends — 

Old skippers brown and hale — 
Who smoked and grumbled o'er their grog. 
And talked of iceberg and of fog, 
Of calm, and storm, and gale. 

And one was spinning a sailor's yarn 

About Klaboterman, 
The Kobold of the sea ; a sprite 
Invisible to mortal sight, 

Who o'er the rigging ran. 

Sometimes he hammered in the hold. 

Sometimes upon the mast. 
Sometimes abeam, sometimes abaft. 
Or at the bows he sang and laughed. 

And made all tight and fast. 

He helped the sailors at their work. 

And toiled with jovial din ; 
He helped them hoist and reef the sails, 
He helped them stow the casks and bales, 

And heave the anchor in. 

But woe unto the lazy louts, 

The idlers of the crew ; 
Them to torment is his delight, 
And worry them by day and night, 

And pinch them black and blue. 

And woe to him whose mortal eyes 

Klaboterman behold ; 
It is a certain sign of death ! — 
The cabin-boy here held his breath, 

He felt his blood run cold 



The jolly skipper paused awhile. 

And then again began : 
"There is a Spectre Ship," quoth he, 
"A ship of the Dead, that sails the sea. 

And is called the Carmilhan. 



" A ghostly ship, with a ghostly crew. 

In tempests she appears ; 
And before the gale, or against the gale. 
She sails without a rag of sail. 

Without a helmsman steers. 

"She haunts the Atlantic north and south, 

But mostly the mid-sea, 
Where three great rocks rise bleak and bare, 
Like furnace-chimneys in the air, 

And .are called the Chimneys Three. 

" And ill betide the luckless ship 

That meets the Carmilhan ; 
Over her decks the seas will leap, 
She must go down into the deep, 

And perish mouse and man." 

The captain of the Valdemar 

Laughed loud with merry heart. 
" I should hke to see this ship," said he ; 
I should like to find these Chimneys Three, 

That are marked down in the chart. 

" I have sailed right over the spot," he said, 

" With a good stiff breeze behind. 
When the sea was blue, and the sky was clear — 
You can follow my course by these pinholes 
here — 
And never a rock could find." 

And then he swore a dreadful oath. 
He swore by the Kingdoms Three, 
That should he meet the Carmilhan, 
He would run her down, although he ran 
Right into Eternity ! 

All this, while passing to and fro. 

The cabin-boy had heard ; 
He lingered at the door to hear. 
And drank in all with greedy ear, 

And pondered every word. 

He was a simple country lad. 

But of a roving mind ; 
" Oh, it must be like heaven," thought he, 
" Those far-off foreign lands to see. 

And fortune seek and find ! " 

But in the fo'castle, when he heard 

The mariners blaspheme, 
He thought of home, he thought of God, 
And his mother under the churchyard soa, 

And wished it were a dream. 



THE BALLAD OF CARMILHAN. 



53 



One friend on board that ship had he ; 

'Twas the Klaboterman, 
Who saw the Bible in his chest, 
And made a sign upon his breast, 

All evil things to ban. 



" It is the tide," those skippers cried, 

" That swings the vessel so ; 
It is the tide ; it rises fast, 
'Tis time to say farewell at last, 
'Tis time for us to go." 




"A HOPELESS WRECK, UPON THE CHIMNEYS THREE." {Brawnhy E. Wagner.) 



The cabin-windows have grown blank 

As eyeballs of the dead ; 
No more the glancing sunbeams burn 
On the gilt letters of the stem. 

But on the figure-head ; 

On Valdemar Victorious, 

Who looketh with disdain, 
To see his image in the tide 
Dismembered float from side to side, 
And reunite again. 



They shook the captain by the hand, 

" Good luck ! good luck ! " they cried ; 
Each face was like the setting sun. 
As, broad and red, they one by one 
Went o'er the vessel's side. 

The sun went down, the full moon rose, 

The tide was at its flood ; 
And all the winding creeks and bays 
And broad sea-meadows seemed ablaze. 

The sky was red as blood. 



54 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



The south-west wind blew fresh and fair, 

As fair as wind could be ; 
Bound for Odessa, o'er the bar. 
With all sail set, the Valdemar 

Went proudly out to sea. 

The lovely moon climbs up the sky 

As one who walks in dreams ; 
A tower of marble in her light, 
A wall of black, a wall of white, 
The stately vessel seems. 

Low down upon the sandy coast 

The lights begin to burn ; 
And now uplifted high in air 
They kindle with a fiercer glare, 

And now drop far astern. 

The dawn appears, the land is gone. 

The sea is all around ; 
Then on each hand low hills of sand 
Emerge and form another land ; 

She steereth through the Sound. 

Through Kattegat and Skager-rack, 

She flitteth like a ghost ; 
By day and night, by night and day, 
She bounds, she flies upon her way 

Along the English coast. 

Cape Finisterre is drawing near, 

Cape Finisterre is past ; 
Into the open ocean stream 
She floats, the vision of a dream 

Too beautiful to last. 

Suns rise and set, and rise, and yet 

There is no land in sight ; 
The liquid planets overhead 
Burn brighter now the moon is dead. 

And longer stays the night. 



And now along the horizon's edge 

Mountains of cloud uprose. 
Black, as with forests, underneath. 
Above, their sharp and jagged teeth 

Were white as drifted snows. 

Unseen behind them sank the sun. 

But flushed each snowy peak 
A little while with rosy light, 
That faded slowly from the sight. 
As blushes from the cheek. 

Black grew the sky, all black, all black ; 

The clouds were everywhere ; 
There was a feeling of suspense 
In nature, a mysterious sense 

Of terror in the air. 



And all on board the Valdemar 

Was still as still could be, 
Save when the dismal ship-bell tolled, 
As ever and anon she rolled. 

And lurched into the sea. 

The captain up and down the deck 

Went striding to and fro ; 
Now watched the compass at the wheel. 
Now lifted up his hand to feel 

Which way the wind might blow. 

And now he looked up at the sails, 

And now upon the deep ; 
In every fibre of his frame 
He felt the storm before it came. 

He had no thought of sleep. 

Eight bells ! and suddenly abaft. 

With a great rush of rain. 
Making the ocean white with spume, 
In darkness like the day of doom. 

On came the hurricane. 

The lightning flashed from cloud to cloud. 

And tore the dark in two ; 
A jagged flame, a single jet 
Of white fire, like a bayonet, 

That pierced his eyeballs through. 

Then all around was dark again, 

And blacker than before ; 
But in that single flash of light 
The captain saw a fearfid sight, 

And thought of the oath he swore. 

For right ahead lay the Ship of the Dead, 

The ghostly Carmilhan ! 
Her masts were stripped, her yards were 

bare, 
And on her bowsprit, poised in air, 

Sat the Klaboterman. 

Her crew of ghosts was all on deck. 
Or clambering up the shrouds ; 

The boatswain's whistle, the captain's hail, 

Were like the piping of the gale. 
And thunder in the clouds. 

And close behind the Carmilhan 

There rose up from the sea, 
As from a foundered ship of stone, 
Three bare and splintered masts alone ; 

They were the Chimneys Three ! 

And onward dashed the Valdemar, 

And leaped into the dark ; 
A denser mist, a colder blast, 
A little shudder and she had passed 

Right through the Phantom Barque I 



MY FARE. 



She cleft in twain the shadowy hulk, 

But cleft it unaware ; 
As when, careering to her nest, 
The sea-gull severs with her breast 

The unresisting air. 

Again the lightning flashed ; again 

They saw the Carniilhan, 
Whole as before in hull and spar ; 
But now on board of the Vcddeinar 

Stood the Klaboterman. 



And they all knew their doom was sealed ; 

They knew that death was near ; 
Some prayed who never prayed before ; 
And some they wept, and some they swore. 

And some were mute with fear. 

Then suddenly there came a shock. 

And louder than wind or sea 
A cry burst from the crew on deck, 
As she dashed and crashed, a hopeless wreck. 

Upon the Chimneys Three 



The storm and night were passed, the light 

To streak the east began ; 
The cabin-boy, picked up at sea, 
Survived the wreck, and only he, 

To tell of the Carmilhan. 



MY FAEE. 

[By Geo. Manville Fenk.] 



'""■'~*"'g ON'T you make a mistake now, and i on to my box. 




p think I'm not a working-man ; because 
I am. Don't you run away with the 
idea that because I go of a morning and 
t^^ find my horse and cab waiting ready cleaned 
for me, and 1 jumps up and drives off, as I 
don't work as hard as any mechanic; because 
I do ; and I used to woi'k harder, for it used 
to be Sunday and week-days, till the missus and 
me laid our heads together, and said if we couldn't 
live on six days' work a week at cabbing, we'd try 
something else ; so now I am only a slk days' man 
— Hansom cab, V.R., licensed to carry two persons. 
None o' your poor, broken-kneed knackers for 
me. I takes my money in to the governor regular, 
and told him flat that if I couldn't have a decent 
horse I wouldn't drive ; and I spoke a bit sharp, 
having worked for him ten years. 

" Take your chice, Steve Wilkins," he says ; and 
I took it, and drove Kangaroo, the wall-eyed horse 
with a rat tail. 

I had a call one day off the stand by the Found- 
ling, and has to go into New Ormond Street, close 
by ; and I takes up an old widow lady and her 
daughter — as beautiful a girl of seventeen or 
eighteen as ever I set eyes on, but so weak that I 
had to go and help her down to the cab, when she 
thanked me so sweetly that I couldn't help looking 
again and again, for it was a thing I wasn't used to. 
" Drive out towards the country, cabman, the 
nearest way," says the old lady; "and when we 
want to turn back, I'll speak." 

"Poor gal!" I says, "she's an invalid. She's 
just such a one as my Fan would have been if 
she'd lived;" and I says this to myself as I gets 



feeling quite soft ; for though I 
knew my gal wouldn't have been handsome, what 
did that matter *? I didn't like to lose her. 

" Let's see," I says again, " she wants fresh air. 
AVe'll go up the hill, and through Hampstead ; " 
and I touches Kangaroo on the flank, and away we 
goes, and I picks out all the nicest bits I could, 
and when I comes across a pretty bit of view I 
pulls up, and pretends as there's a strap wanted 
tightening, or a hoof picking, or a fresh knot at the 
end of the whip, and so on. Then I goes pretty 
quickly along the streety bits, and walks very slowly 
along the green lanes ; and so we goes on for a 
good hour, when the old lady pushes the lid open 
with her parasol, and tells me to turn back. 

"All right, mum," I says; and takes 'em back 
another way, allers following the same plan ; and 
at last pulls up at the house where I supposed they 
was lodgers, for that's a rare place for lodgings 
about there. 

I has the young lady leaning on my arm when 
she gets out, and when she was at the door she 
says, " Thank you ! " again, so sweetly and sadly 
that it almost upset me. But the old lady directly 
after asked me the fare, and I tells her, and she 
gives me sixpence too much, and though I wanted 
to pocket it, I wouldn't, but hands it back. 

" Thank you, cabman," she says, "that's for being 
so kind and attentive to my poor child." 

" God bless her, mum," I says, " I don't want 
paying for that." 

Then she smiles quite pleasant, and asks me if 
it would be worth my while to call again the next 
aftsrnoon if it was fine, and I says it would ; and 
next day, just in the same way, I goes right oh" 



56 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



past Primrose Hill, and seeing as what they wanted 
was the fresh air, 1 makes the best o' my way right 
out, and then, when we was amongst the green 
trees. Kangaroo and me takes it easy, and just 
saunters along. Going up hill I walks by his head, 
and picks at the hedges, while them two, seeing as 
I took no notice of 'em, took no notice o' me. I 
mean, you know, treated me as if we was old 
friends, and asked me questions about the different 
places we passed, and so on. 

Bimeby I drives 'em back, and the old lady again 
wanted to give me something extra for what she 
called my kind consideration ; but " No, Stevey," 
I says to myself; "if you can't do a bit o' kindness 
without being paid for it, you'd better put up the 



her poor mother a standing there with the tears in 
her eyes, I had to hurry her in, and get up on to 
my seat as quick as I could, to keep from breaking 
down myself. 

Poor gal ! always so loving and kind to all about 
her — always thanking one so sweetly, and looking 
all the while so much like what one would think 
an angel would look — it did seem so pitiful to feel 
her get lighter and lighter week by week — so feeble, 
that at last I used to go upstairs to fetch her, and 
always carried her down like a child. 

Then she used to laugh, and say " Don't let me 
fall, Stephen" — for they got to call me by my 
name, and to know the missus, by her coming in to 
help a bit ; for the old lady asked me to recom- 




'A STRAP WANTED TIGHTENING." 



shutters, and take to some other trade." So I 
wouldn't have it, and the old lady thought I was 
offended ; but I laughed, and told her as the young 
lady had paid me ; and so she had with one of her 
sad smiles, and I said I'd be there again nex' day 
if it was fine. 

And so I was ; and so we went on day after day, 
and week after week ; and I could see that, though 
the sight of the country and the fresh air brightened 
the poor girl up a bit, yet she was getting weaker 
and weaker, so that at last I half carried her to the 
cab and back again after the ride. One day while 
I was waiting, the servant tells me that they 
wouldn't stay in town, only on account of a great 
doctor, as they went to see at first, but who came 
to them now ; and last of all, when I went to the 
house I used always to be in a fidget for fear the 
poor gal should be too ill to come out. But no ; 
month after month she kep' on ; and when I helped 
her, used to smile so sweetly and talk so about the 
trouble she gave me, that one day, feeling a bit 
tow, I turned quite silly ; and happening to look at 



mend 'em an honest woman, and I knowed none 
honester than my wife. And so it was with every- 
body—it didn't matter who it was — they all loved 
the poor gal ; and I've had the wife come home and 
sit and talk about her, and about our Fanny as 
died, till she's been that upset she's cried terribly. 

Autumn came in werry wet and cold, and there 
was an end to my jobs there. Winter was werry 
severe, but I kep' on hearing from the missus how 
the poor gal was — sometimes better, sometimes 
worse : and the missus alius shook her head werry 
sadly when she talked about her. 

Jennywerry and Feberwerry went by terribly 
cold, and then March came in quite warm and fine, 
so that things got so forrard you could buy radishes 
wonderful cheap in April ; and one night the wife 
comes home and tells me that if it was as fine nex' 
day as it had been, I was to call and take the old 
lady and her daughter out. 

Nex' day was splendid. It was as fine a spring 
day as ever I did see, and I sticks a daffydown- 
dilly in on each side of Kangaroo's head, and then 



MY FARE. 



57 



spends twopence in a couple o' bunches o' wilets, 
and pins 'em in on the side where the poor gal used 
to sit, puts clean straw in the bottom, and then 
drives to the place with the top lid open, so as 
to sweeten the inside, because swells had been 
smoking there that morning. 

"Jest run yer sponge and leather over the apron 
a bit, Buddy," I says to our waterman, afore I left 
the stand. 

" Got a wedding on 1 " he says, seeing how per- 
tickler I was. 

" There, look alive ! " I says, quite snappish, for 
I didn't feel in a humour to joke ; and then, when 
I'd got all as I thought right, I drives up, keeping 
the Hd open, as I said afore. 

When I draws up I puts the nose-bag on the old 
horse, for him to amuse himself with, and so as I 
could leave him, for he wouldn't stir an inch with 
that bag on to please all the pleacemen in London. 
Then I rings, and waits, and at last gets my orders 
to go and help the young lady down. 

I takes off my hat, wipes my shoes well, and 
goes up, and there she was waiting, and smiled so 
pleasantly again, and held out her hand to me, 
as though I'd been a friend, instead of a rough, 
weather-battered street cabman. And do you 
know what I did, as I went in there, with my eyes 
all dim at seeing her so, so changed '? Why, I felt 
as if I ought to do it, and I bent down and took 
her beautiful white hand in mine, and kissed it, 
and left a big tear on it ; for something seemed to 
say so plainly that she'd soon be where I hoped 
my own poor gal was, whom I always say we lost, 
but my wife says, " No, not lost, for she is ours 
still." 

She was so light now that I carried her down in 
a minute ; and when she was in the cab and saw 
the wilets, she took 'em down, and held 'em in her 
hand, and nodded and smiled again at me, as 
though she thanked me for them. 

"Go the same way as you went first time, 
Stephen," she says. 

Well, I picked out all the quieter bits, and took 
her away beyond Hampstead ; and there, in the 
greenest and prettiest spot I could find, I pulls up, 
and sits there listening to the soft whispers of her 
voice, and feeling somehow that it was for the last 
time. 



After a bit I goes gently on again, more and 
more towards the country, where the hedges were 
turning beautiful and green, and all looked so 
bright and gay. 

Bimeby I stops again, for there was a pretty 
view, and you could see miles away. Of course I 
didn't look at them if I could help it, for the real 
secret of people enjoying a ride is being with a 
driver who seems no more to 'em than the horse — 
a man, you see, who knows his place. -But I 
couldn't help just stealing one or two looks at the 
inside where that poor gal lay back in the corner 
looking out at the bright spring-time, and holding 
them two bunches of wilets close to her face. I was 
walking backwards and forwards then, patting the 
horse and straightening his harness, when I just 
catches the old lady's eye, and saw she looked 
rather frightened, and she leans over to her daughter 
and calls her by name quickly ; but the poor girl 
did not move, only stared straight out at the blue 
sky, and smiled so softly and sweetly. 

I didn't want no telling what to do, for I was in 
my seat and the old horse flying a'most before you 
could have counted ten ; and away we went, full 
pace, till I come up to a doctor's, dragged at the 
bell, and had him up to the cab in no time ; and 
then he rode on the footboard, in front of the 
apron, with the shutters let down ; and he whis- 
pered to me to drive back softly, and I did. 

The old lady has lodged with us ever since, for I 
took a better place on purpose, and my missus 
always attends on her. She's werry fond o' talking 
with my wife about their two gals who have gone 
before ; but though I often take her for a drive 
over the old spots, she never says a word to me 
about such things ; while soon after the funeral she 
told Sarah to tell me as the wilets were not taken 
from the poor gal's hand, same time sending me a 
fi-pun note to buy a suit o' mourning. 

Of course I couldn't wear that every day, but 
there was a bit o' rusty crape on my old shiny hat 
not such a werry long time ago ; and I never buy 
wilets now, for as they lie in the baskets in spring- 
time, sprinkled with the drops o' bright water, they 
seem to me to have tears upon 'em, and make me 
feel sad and upset, for they start me off thinking 
about "My Fare." 




f)8 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS, 



w 



TEN MINUTES WITH PUCK. 

[From " Puck on Pegasus."* By H. CHOLHO.N-DELEi-PEKlfELL.] 

HO has not heard of fairy Puck ? That merry sprite, immortalised by Shakespeare, who was 
wont to — 

"Jest to Oberon, and make him smile, 
Wlien I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile, 
Neighing in likeness of a filly foal ; 
And sometimes lurk I in a gossiji's bowl, 
In very likeness of a roasted crab, 
And when she drinks, against her lips I bob," 

lias very often in his modern representative shown that he can be quite serious, and look at life from 
life's real aspect ; but for the most part he is ready to bob crab-like fruits of fancy against the lipS of 
those who read his little collection of fanciful verses. Here is his account of the daily trials of 
a dyspeptic— one of those unfortunates who goes about the world talking about his digestion, when 
lie has none at all, or scarcely any. Fancy, please, for a few moments the yellow, bilious-looking 
gentleman going into a London eating-house and summoning the attendant, who answers in the pert, 
cock-sparrow-like fashion of London eating-house waiters. 

"Lunch, sir? yes-ser, pickled salmon, 

Cutlets, kidneys, greens, and " — 

"Gammon ! 

Have you got no wholesome meat, sir ? 

Flesh or fowl that one can eat, sir ? " 

"Eat, sir? yes-ser, on the dresser. 

"Pork, sir?" "Pork, sir, I detest, sir." 

"Lobsters?" "Ai-e to rne unblest, sir." 

' ' Ducks and peas ? '' "I can't digest, sir. " 

"Puff, sir?" "StuflF, sir!" "Fish, sir?" "Pish, 

sir !" 
' ' Sausage ? " " Sooner eat the dish, sir ! " 
"Shrimps, sir? prawns, sir? crawfish? winkle? 
Scallops ready in a twinkle ? 
"Whelks and cockles, crabs to follow ! " 
" Heav'ns, nothing I can swallow ! " 
""Waiter!" 
" Yes-sar." 
"Bread for twenty — 
I shall starve in midst of plenty ! " 




•Eat, sib? tes-ser." 



Poor m."in, he is to be pitied, especially as he is self-condemned to bread, and most probably water ; 
but Puck is harder upon the man who stammers, and is accosted by a wa3'farer, who asks to be 
directed to Waterloo Place, and is thus answered : — 

""Wuw — "Wuw — "VYuw — "Wuw — "Wuw — AVuw — AV — AVaterloo Place? yes, you 
T — take the first tut— tut — tut — turning that faces you, 

Lul — left, and then Irak — kuk— kuk — kuk — kuk — kidi — keep up PaU Mall till you 
See the AVuw — AV^uw — AVuw — AA''uw — Zounds, sir, you'll get there before I can tell it you !" 

It is, perhaps, in bad taste to make fun of an affliction; but Puck was one who only looked at 
the comic side of things, and his jests were so light and merry, so free from cruel malice, that those 
against whom they are directed might very well join the band of those who laugh. And really 
there are some afflictions that are naturally so droll that it is impossible to avoid a smile. Think, for 
instance, of the gentleman who, through carelessness perhaps, or maybe solely through the ailment 
being epidemic, catches that terrible sneezing, nose-swelling, eye-Avatering kind of cold, known as the 
influenza. Puck paints one such, writing a poem or lay full of lamentations about his lost, lost love, 
and he sighs for her, speaking through his " dose," as follows : — 



" O doe, doe ! 

I shall dever see her bore ! 
Dever bore our feet shall run 

The beadows as of yore ! 
Dever bore with byrtld boughs 

Her tresses shall I twide — 



Dever bore her bellow voice 
Bake belody with bide ! 

Dever shall we lidger bore 
Abid the flowers at dood. 

Dever shall we gaze at dight 
"Upon the tedtder bood ! 
Ohatto and Wind us. 



TEN MINUTES WITH FUCK. 



59 



Ho, doe, doe ! . 
Those berry tibes have flowd, 
Ad I shall dever see her bore, 
By beautiful ! by owd ! 

" Ho, doe, doe ! 

I shall dever see her bore ; 
She will forget be id a bonth 

(Bost probably before). 
She will forget the byrtle boughs, 

The flowers we i)lucked at dood, 



Our beetings by the tedtder stars. 

Our gazings od the bood ; 
Ad I shall dever see agaid 

The Lily ad the Rose, 
The dabask cheek ! the sdowy brow ! 

The perfect bouth ad dose ! 
Ho, doe, doe ! 
Those berry tibes have flowd, 
Ad I shall dever see her bore, 

By beautiful ! by owd ! " 



But, as was said at the commencement of this Ten Minutes with Puck, he has his serious moods, 
as when in verse he describes the departure of the night mail from Euston Square Station for the North, 
with the hurry and bustle of the passengers, the closing of' the gates just as the red-coated mail 
guards are handing in the last leather bag of letters, and the driver and stoker stand on their 
hissing engine, waiting for the whistle to chirrup and the platform inspector's signal to start. 

It is a case of moments now, the engine pants hard, the last shovel of coal has made the steam 
fly screaming through the safety-valve, when a stentorian voice seems to echo along beneath the great 
glazed roof of the terminus, shoutings 



' ' Now, then, take your seats ! for Glasgow and the 

North ; 
Chester ! — Carlisle ! — Holyhead, — and the v/ild Frith 

of Forth : 
Clap on the steam, and sharp's the word. 
You men in scarlet cloth," 

'* Are there any more pas— sengers, 
For the Night— Mail— to the North ? 
Are there any more passengers ? " 

Yes, three — but they can't get in — 
Too late, too late ! How they bellow and knock, 
They might as well try to soften a rock 

As the heart of that fellow in green. 
For the Night Mail Noi-th ? what ho ! 
(No use to struggle, you can't get thro'). 

My young and lusty one 
Whither away from the gorgeous to"\vn ? 
For the lake, and the stream, and the heather brown, 

** And the double-barrelled gun ! " 
For the Night Mail North, I say ?— 

You with the eager eyes — 
You with the haggard face and i^ale ! — 
From a ruined hearth and a starving brood, 

*' A crime and a felon's gaol ! " 
For the Night Mail North, old man? 

Old statue of despair— 
"Why tug and strain at the iron gate ? 
" My daughter! " 
Ha ! too late, too late ! 

She is gone, you may safely swear ; 
She has given you the slip, d'you hear ? 
She has left you alone in your wrath. 
And she's off and away, with a glorious start, 
To the home of her choice, with the man of her heart, 
By the Night Mail North ! 



Wh— ish, K— ush, 
AVh— ish, E— ush— 

"What's all that hullabaloo ? 
Keep fast the gates there — who is this 

That insists on biirsting thro' ? " 
A desperate man whom none may withstand ; 
For, look, there is something clenched in his hand, 
Tho' the bearer is ready to drop. 
He waves it wildly to and fro. 
And hark ! how the crowd are shouting below 

"Back!" 
And back the oi>posing bamers go. 
"^ reprieve for the Canongatc murderer, ho I 
In the Queeii's name — 
Stop. 

Another has confessed the ci'ime.'^ 
Whish — rush — whish — rush— 
The guard has caught the flutt'ring sheet, 
Now forward and northward ! fierce and fleet, 
Thro' the mist, and the dark, and the driving sleet 

As if life and death were in it : 
'Tis a splendid race ! a race against time, 

And a thousand to one we win it : 
Look at those flitting ghosts — 
The white-armed finger-posts — 
If we're moving the eighth of an inch, I say, 

We're going a mile a minute ! 
A mile a minute — for life or death — 
Away, away ! though it catches one's breath. 

The man shall not die in his wrath. 
The quivering carriages rock and reel — 
Hurrah ! for the rush of the grinding steel ! 
The thundering crank, and the mighty wheel! 

Aie there any more x>as— sengers 

For the Night— Mail— to the North ? 




" Br THE Night Mail North 



60 



GLEANINGS FEOM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



THE TAMING OF THE SHEEW. 

[Lamb's "Tales from Shakespeare."] 




iATHARINE, the Shrew, was the 
eldest daughter of Baptista, a rich 
gentleman of Padua. She was a lady 
Iffi^W of such an ungovernable spirit and 
^i^^^ fiery temper, such a loud-tongued 
scold, that she was known in Padua 
by no other name than Katharine the 
Shrew. It seemed very unlikely, indeed 
impossible, that any gentleman would ever be 
found who would venture to marry this lady, and 
therefore Baptista was much blamed for deferring 
his consent to many excellent offers that were 
made to her gentle sister Bianca, putting off all 
Bianca's suitors with this excuse, that when the 
eldest sister was fairly off his hands, they should 
have free leave to address young Bianca. 

It happened, however, that a gentleman, named 
Petrucio, came to Padua purposely to look out for 
a wife, who, nothing discouraged by these reports 
of Katharine's temper, and hearing she was rich 
and handsome, resolved upon marrying this 
famous termagant, and taming her into a meek 
and manageable wife. And truly none was so fit 
to set about this herculean labour as Petrucio, 
whose spirit was as high as Katharine's, and ho 
was a witty and most happy-tempered humourist, 
and withal so wise, and of such a true judgment, 
that he well knew how to feign a passionate and 
furious deportment, when his spirits were so calm 
that himself could have laughed merrily at his 
own angry feigning ; for his natural temper was 
careless and easy ; the boisterous air he assumed 
when he became the husband of Katharine being 
but in sport, or, more properly speaking, affected 
by his excellent discernment as the only means to 
overcome, in her own way, the passionate ways of 
the furious Katharine. 

A- courting then Petrucio went to Katharine the 
Shrew ; and first of all he applied to Baptista, her 
father, for leave to woo his gentle daughter Katha- 
rine, as Petrucio called her, saying, archly, that 
having heard of her bashful modesty and mild 
behaviour, he had come from Verona to solicit her 
love. Her father, though he wished her married, was 
forced to confess Katharine would ill answer this 
character, it being soon apparent of what manner 
of gentleness she was composed, for her music- 
master rushed into the room to complain that the 
gentle Katharine, his pupil, had broken his head 
with her lute, for presuming to find faidt with her 
performance ; which when Petrucio heard, he said, 
" It is a brave wench ; I love her more than ever, 
and long to have some chat wth her ;" and hurry- 
ing the old gentleman for a positive answer, he 
said, " My business is in haste, Signior Baptista ; 



I cannot come every day to woo. You knew my 
father : he is dead, and has left me heir to all his 
lands and goods. Then tell me, if I get your 
daughter's love, what dowry you will give with 
her." Baptista thought his manner was rather 
blunt for a lover ; but being glad to get Katharine 
married, he answered that he would give her 
twenty thousand crowns for her dowry, and half 
his estate at his death : so this odd match was 
quickly agreed on, and Baptista went to apprise 
his shrewish daughter of her lover's addresses, and 
sent her in to Petrucio to listen to his suit. 

In the meantime Petrucio was settling with 
himself the mode of courtship he should pursue ; 
and he said, "I will woo her with some spirit 
when she comes. If she rails at me, why then I mU 
tell her she sings as sweetly as a nightingale ; and 
if she frowns, I will say she looks as clear as 
roses newly washed with dew. If she will not 
speak a word, I will praise the eloquence of her 
language; and if she bids me leave her, I will 
give her thanks as if she bid me stay with her a 
week." Now the stately Katharine entered, and 
Petrucio first addressed her with, " Good morrow, 
Kate ; for that is your name, I hear." Katharine, 
not liking this plain salutation, said disdainfully, 
" They call me Katharine who do speak to 
me." "You lie," replied the lover ; "for you are 
called plain Kate, and bonny Kate, and some- 
times Kate the Shrew; but, Kate, you are the 
prettiest Kate in Christendom, and therefore, 
Kate, hearing your mildness praised in every town, 
I am come to woo you for my wife." 

A strange courtship they made of it ; she in 
loud and angry terms showing him how justly she 
had gained the name of Shrew, while he stiU 
praised her sweet and courteous words, till at 
length, hearing her father coming, he said (in- 
tending to make as quick a wooing as possible), 
" Sweet Katharine, let us set this idle chat aside, 
for your father has consented that you shall be 
my wife, your dowry is agreed on, and whether 
you will or no, I will marry you." 

And now Baptista entering, Petrucio told him 
his daughter had received him kindly, and that 
she had promised to be married the next Sunday. 
This Katharine denied, saying she would rather 
see him hanged on Sunday, and reproached her 
father for wishing to wed her to such a mad-cap 
ruffian as Petrucio. Petrucio desired her father 
not to regard her angry words, for they had agreed 
she should seem reluctant before him, but that 
when they were alone he had found her very fond 
and loving : and he said to her, " Give me your 
hand, Kate ; I will go to Venice to buy you fine 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 



61 



apparel against our wedding-day. Provide the 
feast, father, and bid the wedding guests. I 
will be sure to bring rings, fine array, and 
rich clothes, that my Katharine may be fine : 
and kiss me, Kate, for we will be married on 
Sunday." 

On the Sunday all the wedding guests were 
assembled, but they waited long before Petrucio 
^^ame, and Katharine wept for vexation to think 
that Petrucio had only been making a jest of her. 
At last, however, he appeared, but he brought 
none of the bridal finery he had promised 
Katharine, nor was he dressed himself like a bride- 
groom, but in strange disordered attire, as if he 
meant to make a sport of the serious business he 



sop which was at the bottom of the glass full in 
the sexton's face, giving no other reason for this 
strange act than that the sexton's beard grew thin 
and hungerly, and seemed to ask the sop as he was 
drinking. Never sure was there such a mad 
marriage : but Petrucio did but put this wildness 
on, the better to succeed in the plot he had formed 
to tame his shrewish wife. 

Baptista had provided a sumptuous marriage 
feast ; but, when they returned from church, 
Petrucio, taking hold of Katharine, declared his 
intention of carrying his wife home instantly ; and 
no remonstrance of his father-in-law, or angry 
words of the enraged Katharine, could make him 
change his purpose ; he claimed a husband's right 




'Threw the meat abotjt the flooh/' (Drawuhy A. Laby.) 



came about ; and his servant, and the very horses 
on which they rode, were in like manner in mean 
and fantastic fashion habited. 

Petrucio could not be persuaded to change his 
dress ; he said Katharine was to be married to 
him, and not to his clothes ; and finding it was in 
vain to argue with him, to the church they went ; 
he still behaving in the same mad way, for when 
the priest asked Petrucio if Katharine should be 
his wife, he swore so loud that she should, that, all 
amazed, the priest let fall his book, and as he 
stooped to take it up, this mad-brained bridegroom 
gave him such a ens' that down fell the priest and 
his book again. And aU the while they were 
being married he stamped and swore so that the 
high-spirited Katharine trembled and shook with 
fear. After the ceremony was over, while they 
were yet in the church, he called for wine, and 
drank a loud health to the company, and threw a 



to dispose of his wife as he pleased, and away he 
hurried Katharine oS : he seeming so daring and 
resolute that no one dared attempt to stop him. 

Petrucio mounted his wife upon a miserable 
horse, lean and lank, which he had picked out for 
the purpose, and himself and his servant no better 
mounted ; they journeyed on through rough and 
miry ways, and ever when this horse of Katharine's 
stumbled, he would storm and swear at the poor 
jaded beast, who could scarce crawl under his 
burden, as if he were the most passionate man 
alive. 

At length, after a weary journey, during which 
Katharine had heard nothing but the wild ravings 
of Petrucio at the servant and the horses, they 
arrived at his house. Petrucio welcomed her 
kindly to her home ; but he resolved she should 
have neither rest nor food that night. The tables 
were spread, and supper soon served ; but Petrucio, 



62 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



pretending to find favdt -with every dish, threw the 
meat about the floor, and ordered the servants to 
remove it avi^ay : and all this he did, as he said, in 
love for his Katharine, that she might not eat 
meat that was not well dressed. And when 
Katharine, weary and supperless, retired to rest, 
he found the same fault with the bed, throwing 
the pillows and bed-clothes about the room, so 
that she was forced to sit down in a chair, where, 
if she chanced to drop asleep, she was presently 
awakened by the loud voice of her husband, storm- 
ing at the servants for the ill-making of his wife's 
bridal-bed. 

The next day Petrucio pursued the same course, 
still speaking kind words to Katharine, but when 
she attempted to eat, finding fault with every- 
thing that was set before her, throwing the break- 
fast on the floor as he had done the supper ; and 
Katharine, the haughty Katharine, was fain to beg 
the servants would bring her secretly a morsel of 
food ; but they being instructed by Petrucio, 
replied, they dare not give her anything unknown 
to their master. " Ah," said she, " did he marry 
me to famish me ? Beggars that come to my 
father's door have food given them ; but I, who 
never knew what it was to entreat for anything, 
am starved for want of food, giddy for want of 
sleep, with oaths kept waking, and with brawling 
fed ; and that which vexes me more than all, he 
does it under the name of perfect love, pretending 
that if I sleep or eat, it were present death to me." 
Here her solilocjuy was interrupted by the entrance 
of Petrucio : he, not meaning she should be quite 
starved, had brought her a small portion of meat, 
and he said to her, " How fares my sweet Kate ! 
Here, love, you see how diligent I am, I have 
dressed your meat myself. I am sure this kindness 
merits thanks. What, not a word? Nay, then, 
you love not the meat, and all the pains I have 
taken is to no purpose." He then ordered the 
servant to take the dish away. Extreme hunger, 
which had abated the pride of Katharine, made 
her say, though angered to the heart, " I pray you 
let it stand." But this was not all Petrucio 
intended to bring her to, and he replied, "The 
poorest service is repaid with thanks, and so shall 
mine, before you touch the meat." On this 
Katharine brought out a reluctant " I thank you, 
sir." And now he suff'ered her to make a slender 
meal, saying, " Much good may it do your gentle 
heart, Kate ; eat apace ! And now, my honey 
love, we will return to your father's house, and 
revel it as bravely as the best, with silken coats 
and caps and golden rings, with rufi's and scarfs 
and fans and double change of finery ;" and to 
make her believe he really intended to give her 
these gay things, he called in a tailor and a haber- 
dasher, who brought some new clothes he had 
ordered for her, and then giving her plate to the 



servant to take away before she had half satisfied 
her hunger, he said, "What, have you dined?" 
The haberdasher presented a cap, saying, " Here is 
the cap your worship bespoke;" on which Petrucio 
began to storm afresh, saying, the cap was 
moulded on a porringer, and that it was no bigger 
than a cockle or walnut shell, desiring the 
haberdasher to take it away and make a bigger. 
Katherine said, "I wiU have this; all gentlewomen 
wear such caps as these." " When you are gentle," 
replied Petrucio, " you shall have one too, and not 
till then." The meat Katharine had eaten had a 
little revived her fallen spirits, and she said, 
"Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak, 
and speak I will : I am no child, no babe; your 
betters have endured to hear me say my mind ; 
and if you cannot, you had better stop your ears." 
Petrucio would not hear these angry words, for he 
had happily discovered a better way of managing- 
his wife than keeping up a jangling argument with 
her ; therefore his answer was, " Why, you say 
true ; it is a paltry cap, and I love you for not 
liking it." "Love me, or love me not," said 
Katharine, "I like the cap, and I will have this 
cap or none." "You say you wish to see the 
gown," said Petrucio, still affecting to misunder- 
stand her. The tailor then came forward, and 
showed her a fine gown he had made for her. 
Petrucio, whose intent was that she should have 
neither cap nor gown, found as much fault with 
that. " O mercy. Heaven ! " said he, "what stuff i& 
here ! What, do you call this a sleeve ? it is like a 
demi-cannon, carved up and down like an apple 
tart." The tailor said, " You bid me make it 
according to the fashion of the times ; " and 
Katharine said she never saw a better fashioned 
gown. This was enough for Petrucio, and privately 
desiring these people might be paid for their goods, 
and excuses made to them for the seemingly 
strange treatment he bestowed upon them, he 
with fierce words and furious gestures drove the 
tailor and the haberdasher out of the room ; and 
then, turning to Katharine, he said, " Well, come, 
my Kate, we will go to your father's even in these 
mean garments we now wear." And then he 
ordered his horses, aflarming they should reach 
Baptista's house by dinner-time, for that it was 
but seven o'clock. Now it was not early morning, 
but the very middle of the day, when he spoke 
this ; therefore Katharine ventured to say, though 
modestly, being almost overcome by the vehemence 
of his manner, " I dare assure you, sir, it is two 
: o'clock, and will be supper-time before we get 
I there." But Petrucio meant that she should be so 
' completely subdued, that she should assent to 
j everything he said, before he carried her to her 
father ; and therefore, as if he were lord even of 
the sun, and could command the hours, he said it 
should be what time he pleased to have it, before 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 



G3 



he set forward ; " For," said he, " whatever I say 
or do, you still are crossing it. I will not go to- 
day, and when I go it shall be what o'clock I say 
it is." Another day Katharine was forced to 
practise her newly-fonnd obedience ; and not till 
he had brought her proud spirit to such a perfect 
subjection that she dared not remember there was 
such a word as contradiction, would Petrucio allow 
her to go to her father's house ; and even while 
they were upon their journey thither, she was in 
danger of being turned back again, only because 
she happened to hint it was the sun, when he 
affirmed the • moon shone brightly at noonday. 
''Now, by my mother's son," said he, "and that is 
myself, lit shall be the moon, or stars, or what I 
list, before I journey to your father's house." He 
then made as if he were going back again ; but 
Katharine, no longer Katharine the Shrew, but 
the obedient wife, said, " Let us go forward, I 
pray, now we have come so far, and it shall be the 
sun, or moon, or what you please ; and if you 
please to call it a rush candle henceforth, I vow it 
shall be so for me." This he was resolved to prove, 
therefore he said again, "I say. It is the moon." 
■"I know it is the moon," replied Katharine. 
■"You lie, it is the blessed sun," said Petrucio. 
" Then it is the blessed sun," replied Katharine ; 
■" but sun it is not, when you say it is not. What 
you will have it named, even so it is, and so it 
ever shall be for Katharine." Now then he 
suffered her to proceed on her journey, but further 
to try if this yielding humour woidd last, he 
addressed an old gentleman they met on the road 
as if he had been a young woman, sajdng to him, 
■" Good morrow, gentle mistress ; " and asked 
Katharine if she had ever beheld a fairer gentle- 
woman, praising the red and white of the old man's 
cheeks, and comparing his eyes to two bright 
stars ; and again he addressed him, saying, "Fair 
lovely maid, once more good day to you ! " and 
said to his wife, " Sweet Kate, embrace her for her 
beauty's sake." The now completely vanquished 
Katharine quickly adopted her husband's opinion, 
and made her speech in like sort to the old gentle- 
man, saying to him, " Young budding virgin, you 
are fair, and fresh, and sweet : whither are you 
going, and where is your dwelling 1 Happy are 
the parents of so fair a child." "Why, how now, 
Kate 1 " said Petrucio, " I hope you are not mad. 
This is a man, old and wrinkled, faded and 
■withered, and not a maiden, as you say he is." On 
this Katharine said, " Pardon me, old gentleman, 
the sun has so dazzled my eyes, that everything I 
look on seemeth green. Now I perceive you are a 
reverend father : I hope you will pardon me for 
my sad mistake." "Do, good old grandsire," said 
Petrucio, " and tell us which way you are travel- 
ling. We shall be glad of your good company, if 
you are going our way." The old gentleman 



replied, "Fair sir, and you, my merry mistress, 
your strange encounter has much amazed me. My 
name is Vincentio, and I am going to visit a son 
of mine who lives at Padua." Then Petrucio knew 
the old gentleman to be the father of Lucentio, 
a young gentleman who was to be married to 
Baptista's younger daughter, Bianca, and he made 
Vincentio very happy by telling him the rich 
marriage his son was about to make ; and they all 
journeyed on pleasantly together till they came to 
Baptista's house, where there was a large company 
assembled to celebrate the wedding of Bianca and 
Lucentio, Baptista having willingly consented to 
the marriage of Bianca when he had got Katharine 
oif his hands. 

When they entered, Baptista welcomed them to 
the wedding feast, and there was present also 
another newly-married pair. 

Lucentio, Bianca's husband, and Hortensio, the 
other new-married man, could not forbear sly jests, 
which seemed to hint at the shrewish disposition 
of Petrucio's wife, and these fond bridegrooms 
seemed highly pleased with the, mild tempers of 
the ladies they had chosen, laughing at Petrucio 
for his less fortunate choice. Petrucio took little 
notice of their jokes till the ladies were retired 
after dinner, and then . he perceived Baptista 
himself joined in the laugh against him : for when 
Petrucio affirmed tliat his wife would prove more 
obedient than theirs, the father of Katharine said, 
" Now, in good sadness, son Petrucio, I fear yon 
have got the veriest shrew of all." "Well," said 
Petrucio, " I say no, and therefore for assurance 
that I speak the truth, let us each one send for his 
wife, and he whose wife is most obedient to come 
at first when she is sent for, shall win a wager 
which we wUl propose." To this the other two 
husbands willingly consented, for they were quite 
confident that their gentle wives would prove more 
obedient than the headstrong Katharine ; and 
they proposed a wager of twenty crowns, but 
Petrucio merrily said, he would lay as much as 
that upon his hawk or hound, but twenty times as 
much upon his wife. Lucentio and Hortensio 
raised the wager to a hundred crowns, and Lucentio 
first sent his servant to desire Bianca would come 
to him. But the servant returned and said, " Sir, 
my mistress sends yon word she is busy and 
cannot come." "How," said Petrucio, "does she 
say she is busy and cannot cornel Is that an 
answer for a wife?" Then they laughed at him, 
and said, it would be well if Katharine did not 
send him a worse answer. And now it was 
Hortensio's turn to send for his wife ; and he said 
to his servant, " Go, and entreat my wife to come 
to me." "Oh, ho! entreat her!" said Petrucio. 
" Nay, then, she needs must come." "I am afraid, 
sir," said Hortensio, "your wife will not be 
entreated." But presently this civil husband 



64 



CLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



looked a little blank when the servant returned 
without his mistress ; and he said to him, " How 
now! Where is my wife?" "Sir," said the 
servant, " my mistress says you have some goodly 
jest in hand, and therefore she will not come. She 
bids you come to her." " Worse and worse ! " said 
Petrucio ; and then he sent his servant, saying, 
" Sirrah, go to your mistress, and tell her I com- 
mand her to come to me." The company had 
scarcely time to think she would not obey this 
summons, when Baptista, all in amaze, exclaimed, 
" Now, by my hollidam, here comes Katharine ! " 
and she entered, saying meekly to Petrucio, 
" What is your will, sir, that you send for me 1 " 
" Where is your sister and Hortensio's wife 1 " said 
he. Katharine replied, " They sit conferring by 
the parlour fire." " Go, fetch them hither ! " said 
Petrucio. Away went Katharine, without reply, to 
perform her husband's command. " Here is a 
wonder," said Lucentio, "if you talk of a wonder." 
"And so it is," said Hortensio ; " I marvel what it 
bodes." "Marry, peace it bodes," said Petrucio, 
" and love, and c[uiet life, and right supremacy ; 
and to be short, everything that is sweet and 
happy." Katharine's father, overjoyed to see this 
reformation in his daughter, said, " Now, fair 
befall thee, son Petrucio ! you have won the wager, 
and I will add another twenty thousand crowns to 
her dowry, as if she were another daughter, for 



she is changed as if she had never been." "Nay," 
said Petrucio, "I will win the wager better yet, 
and show more signs of her new-built virtue and 
obedience." Katharine now entering with the two 
ladies, he continued, " See where she comes and 
brings your froward wives as prisoners to her 
womanly persuasion. Katharine, that cap of yours 
does not become you ; off with that bauble, and 
throw it under foot." Katharine instantly, took 
off her cap, and threw it down. " Lord ! " said 
Hortensio's wife, " may I never have a cause to 
sigh till I am brought to such a silly pass ! " And 
Bianca, she too said, " Fie, what foolish duty call 
you this 1 " On this Bianca's husband said to her, 
" I wish your duty were as foolish too ! The 
wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca, has cost me a 
hundred crowns since dinner-time." "The more 
fool you," said Bianca, "for laying on my duty." 
"Katharine," said Petrucio, "I charge you tell 
these headstrong women what duty they owe 
their lords and husbands." And to the wonder 
of all present, the reformed shrewish lady 
spoke as eloquently in praise of the wifelike duty 
of obedience, as she had practised it implicitly in 
a ready submission to Petrucio's will. And 
Katharine once more became famous in Padua, 
not as heretofore as Katharine the Shrew, 
but as Katharine the most obedient and duteous 
wife in Padua. 



TWO CLEVER SAILOES. 

[By Heeaclitos Gbet.] 



^N a small old town built on the sea- 
shore, there used to live two sailors 

UbK named Jack and Joe. They were great 

JmU friends, and had one boat between 
them, and went out fishing together. 

They were both strong and brave, and sun- 
burnt. They both liked rum, and both wore 
loose trousers. And so they could never make 
out which was the most clever. 

" I know the best way to cook mackerel and 
herring, and sole," said Jack. 

" So do I. And I know the best way to sell 
them," said Joe. 

" So do I," answered Jack. " And I know the 
best way to catch them." 

'■ So do I," answered Joe ; " but what is the use 
of all this when we have not got any ropes for our 
nets?" 

" If we had time, we could make some," said 
Jack. 

" If we had money, we could buy some," said 
Joe. 



"If we knew where, we could borrow some,' 
said Jack. 




" If we knew where, we could steal some," said 
Joe. 

Just then the bells of the church on the hill 
began tolling for evening prayer. 



ATTACKED BY PIRATES. 



65 



" They ring those bells with roijes," said Jack. 

" And the ropes are very good," said Joe. 

Jack began to smile. Joe began to laugh. 

"Shall we go to church, mate, to-night <" asked 
Jack. 

"And shall we .stay there till last V asked Joe. 

Up the hill went the two sailors. They stopped 
in church tiU the prayers were all over, and every- 
body had gone home. 

" Now is our time," said Jack. 

" It is our turn now," said Joe. 

Ofl'they went to the tower where the bells were 
hung. Here they found two long, strong, thick 
ropes. 

" One for me," cried Jack. 

" And one for me," cried Joe. 

Up the ropes climbed the two clever sailor.s, 
like a couple of monkeys. 

" I'm up at the top," said .Jack. 

" And so am I," said Joe. 

Jack pulled out a knife from his pocket. So 
dil Joe 



Lick ! slick ! went Jack's knife. He cut 
through the rope over his head, and down he 
fell, and broke his pate on the stones at the 
bottom. 

"Oh, crikee !" groaned Jack, at the bottom ; 
■' who could have thought of that ]" 

" What a stupid-head you were," cried Joe at 
the top. " You should have done as I do." 

With these words he cut his rope close under 
his feet. Down it fell, and left him hanging by 
his two hands at the top. 

"Oh, crikee!" cried Joe, at the top; "who 
could have thought of_that 1 " 

" What a stupid-head you were," groaned Jack. 
" You will have to hang there till morning." 

And so he did, and made his arms so stiff that 
he could not move them for a week. 

It was a sad night for the two clever sailors. 
They cried, and groaned, and prayed, and said bad 
words till morning. 

Then Jack was taken off to the hospital, and 
Joe was taken off to prison. 




ATTACKED BY PIEATES. 

[By Charles Eeade. From " Hard Cash," published by Messrs. Ward, Look, and Co.] 




I' HE way the pirate dropped the mask, 
showed his black teeth, and bore up 
in chase, was terrible : so dilates and 
bounds the sudden tiger on his unwary 
prey. There were stout hearts among the 
officers of the peaceable Agi-a ; but danger 
in a new form shakes the brave ; and this 
was their first pirate : their dismay broke out in 
ejaculations not loud but deep. 

" Clearing the lee guns," said a middy, off his 
guard. 

Colonel Kenealy pricked up his ears, drew his 

cigar from his mouth, and smelt powder. " What, 

for action 1 " said he, briskly. "Where's the enemy ] " 

Fullalove made him a signal, and they went 

below. 



But now the captain came bustling on deck, 
eyed the Joftier sails, saw they were drawing well, 
appointed four midshipmen a staff to convey his 
orders ; gave Bayliss charge of the carronades. 
Grey of the cutlasses, and directed Mr. Tickell to 
break the bad news gently to Mrs. Beresford, and 
to take her below to the orlop deck ; ordered the 
purser to serve out beef, biscuit, and grog to all 
hands, saying, "Men can't work on an empty 
stomach : and fighting is hard work ; " then 
beckoned the officers to come round him. " Gen- 
tlemen," said he, confidentially, "in crowding 
sail on this ship I had no hope of escaping that 
fellow on this tack, but I was, and am, most 
anxious to gain the open sea, where I can square 
my yards and mn for it, if I see a chance. At 



63 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



present I shall carry on till he comes up within 
range : and then, to keep the Company's canvas 
from being shot to rags, I shall shorten sail ; 
and to save ship and cargo and all our lives, I 
shall fight while a plank of her swims. Better 
be killed in hot blood than walk the plank in 
cold." 

The officers cheered faintly ; the captain's 
dogged resolution stirred up theirs. 

The pirate had gained another quarter of a mile 
and more. The ship's crew were hard at their 
beef and grog, and agreed among themselves it 
was a comfortable ship ; they gTiessed what was 
coming, and woe to the ship in that hour if the 
captain had not won their respect. Strange to 
say, there were two gentlemen in the Agra to 
whom the pirate's approach was not altogether 
unwelcome. Colonel Kenealy and Mr. Fullalove 
were rival sportsmen ; and rival theorists. Kenealy 
stood out for a smooth bore, and a four-ounce ball ; 
Fullalove for a rifle of his own construction. 
Many a doughty argument they had, and many a 
bragging match ; neither could convert the other. 
At last Fullalove hinted that by going ashore at 
the Cape, and getting each behind a tree at one 
hundred yards, and popping at one another, one or 
other would be convinced. 

"Well, but," said Kenealy, "if he is dead, he 
will be no wiser ; besides, to a fellow like me, who 
has had the luxury of popping at his enemies, 
popping at a friend is poor insipid work." 

"That is true," said the other, regretfully. 
"But I reckon we shall never settle it by argu- 
ment." 

Theorists are amazing creatures : and it was 
plain, by the alacrity with which these good 
creatures loaded the rival instruments, that to 
them the pirate came not so much as a pirate as 
a solution. Indeed, Kenealy, in the act of charg- 
ing his piece, was heard to mutter, " Now, this is 
lucky." 

Sail was no sooner shortened, and the crew 
ranged, than the captain came briskly on deck, 
saluted, jumped on a carronade, and stood erect. 
He was not the man to show the crew his fore- 
bodings. 

(Pipe.) " Silence fore and aft." 

"My men, the schooner coming up on our 
weather quarter is a Portuguese pirate. His 
character is known ; he scuttles all the ships he 
boards, dishonours the women, and murders the 
crew. We cracked on to get out of the narrows, 
and now we have shortened sail to fight this 
blackguard, and teach him to molest a British 
ship. I promise, in the Company's name, twenty 
pounds prize money to every man before the mast 
if we beat him off or outmanoeuvre him ; thirty if 
we sink him ; and forty if we tow him asterii into 
a friendly port. Eight guns are clear below, three 



on the weather side, five on the lee ; for, if he- 
knows his business, he will come up on the lee 
quarter ; if he doesn't, that is no fault of yours 
or mine. The muskets are all loaded, the cutlasses- 
ground like razors " 

" Hurrah 1" 

" We have got women to defend " 

"Hurrah!" 

" A good ship under our feet, the God of justice 
overhead, British hearts in our bosoms, and 
British colours flying — run 'em up ! — over our 
heads." (The ship's colours flew up to the fore,, 
and the Union Jack to the mizen peak.) " Now, ' 
lads, I mean to fight this .ship while a plank of her 
(stamping on the deck) swims beneath my foot,, 
and — AVHAT DO you say t " 

The reply was a fierce " hurrah ! " from a 
hundred throats, so loud, so deep, so full of 
volume, it made the ship vibrate, and rang in the 
creeping-on pirate's ears. Fierce, but cunning, he 
saw mischief in those shortened sails, and that 
Union Jack, the terror of his tribe, rising to a 
British cheer ; he lowered his mainsail, and 
crawled up on the weather quarter. Arrived 
within a cable's length, he double reefed his fore- 
sail to reduce his rate of sailing nearly to that of 
the ship ; and the next moment a tongue of flame,, 
and then a g-ush of smoke, issued from his lee 
bow, and the ball flew screaming like a seagull 
over the Agra's mizen top. He then put his 
helm up, and fired his other bow-chaser, and 
sent the shot hissing and skipping on the water 
past the ship. This prologue made the novices- 
wince. Bayliss wanted to reply with a carronade ; 
but Dodd forbade him sternly, saying, "If we keep- 
him aloof we are done for." 

The pirate drew nearer, and fired both guns in 
succession, hulled the Agi-a amidships, and sent 
an eighteen - pound ball through her foresail. 
Most of the faces were pale on the quarter-deck ;, 
it was very trying to be shot at, and hit, and 
make no return. The next double discharge sent- 
one shot smash through the stern cabin window, 
and splintered the bulwark with another, wound- 
ing a seaman slightly. 

" Lie down foewaed ! " shouted Dodd, through 
his trumpet. "Bayliss, give him a shot." 

The carronade was fired with a tremendous- 
report, but no visible eff'ect. The pirate crept 
nearer, steering in and out like a snake to avoid 
the carronades, and firing those two heavy guns- 
alternately into the devoted ship. He hulled the 
Agra now nearly every shot. 

The two available carronades replied noisily, 
and jumped, as usual ; they sent one thirty-two- 
pound shot clean through the schooner's deck and 
side ; but that was literally all they did worth 
speaking of 

" Curse them ! " cried Dodd ; " load them with 



ATTACKED BY PIRATES. 



67 



.grape ! they are not to be trusted with ball. And 
all my eighteen-pounders dumb ! The coward 
won't come alongside and give them a chance." 

At the next discharge the pirate chipped the 
mizen mast, and knocked a sailor into dead pieces 
on the forecastle. Dodd put his helm down ere 
the smoke cleared, and got three carronades to 
bear, heavily laden with grape. Several pirates 
fell, dead or wounded, on the crowded deck, and 
some holes appeared in the foresail ; this one inter- 
change was quite in favour of the ship. 

But the lesson made the enemy more cautious ; 
he crept nearer, but steered so adroitly, now right 
astern, now on the quarter, that the ship could 
seldom bring more than one carronade to bear, 
while he raked her fore and aft with grape and 
ball. 

In this alarming situation, Dodd kept as many 
•of the men below as possible ; but, for all he could 
do, four were killed and seven wounded. 

At last, when the ship was cloved with shot, 
.and peppered with grape, the channel opened : in 
five minutes more he could put her dead before 
the wind. 

No. The pirate, on whose side luck had been 
from the first, got half a broadside to bear at long 
musket shot, killed a midshipman by Dodd's side, 
-cut away two of the Agra's mizen shrouds, 
wounded the gaff : and cut the jib-stay ; down 
fell that powerful sail into the water, and dragged 
across the ship's forefoot, stopping her way to the 
open sea she panted for ; the mates groaned ; the 
■crew cheered stoutly, as British Tars do in any 
.great disaster ; the pirates yelled with ferocious 
triumph. 

But most human events, even calamities, have 
two sides. The Agra being brought almost to a 
.standstill, the pirate forged ahead against his will, 
and the combat took a new and terrible form. 
The elephant gun popped, and the rifle cracked, 
in the Ag7-a's mizen top, and the man at the 
pirate's helm jumped into the air and fell dead : 
both Theorists claimed him. Then the three 
■carronades peppered him hotly ; and he hurled an 
iron shower back with fatal effect. Then at last 
"the long 18-pounders on the gun-deck got a word 
in. The old Niler was not the man to miss a 
vessel alongside in a quiet sea ; he sent two round 
shot clean through him ; the third splintered his 
bidwark, and swept across his deck. 

" His masts ! fire at his masts ! " roared Dodd 
to Monk, through his trumpet ; he then got the 
.jib clear, and made what sail he could without 
taking all the hands from the guns. 

The pirate, bold as he was, got sick of fair fight- 
ing first ; he hoisted his mainsail and drew rapidly 
ahead, with a slight bearing to windward, and dis- 
mounted a carronade and stove in the ship's quarter- 
iDoat, by way of a parting kick. 



The men hurled a contemptuous cheer after 
him ; they thought they had beaten him off. But 
Dodd knew better. He was but retiring a little 
way to make a more deadly attack than ever : he 
would soon wear, and cross the Agra's defenceless 
bows, to rake her fore and aft at pistol-shot dis- 
tance ; or grapple, and board the enfeebled ship 
two hundred strong. 

Dodd flew to the helm, and with his own hands 
put it hard a weather, to give the deck guns one 
more chance, the last, of sinking or disabling the 
Destroyer. As the ship obeyed, and a deck gun 
bellowed below him, he saw a vessel running out 
from Long Island, and coming swiftly up on his lee 
quarter. 

It was a schooner. Was she coming to his aid 1 

Horror ! A black flag floated from her foremast 
head. 

While Dodd's eyes were staring almost out of 
his head at this death-blow to hope. Monk fired 
again ; and just then a pale face came close to 
Dodd's, and a solemn voice whispered in his ear : 
" Our ammunition is nearly done I " It was the 
first mate. 

Dodd seized his hand convulsively, and pointed 
to the pirate's consort coming up to finish them ; 
and said, with the calm of a brave man's despair, 
" Cutlasses ! and die hard ! " 

At that moment the master gunner fired his last 
gTin. It sent a chain shot on board the retiring 
pirate, took off a Portuguese head and spun it clean 
into the sea ever so far to windward, and cut the 
schooner's foremast so nearly through that it 
trembled and nodded, and presently snapped with 
a loud crack, and came down like a broken tree, 
with the yard and sail ; the latter overlapping the 
deck and burying itself, black flag and all, in the 
sea ; and there, in one moment, lay the Destroyer 
buffeting and wriggling— like a heron on the water 
with his long wing broken — an utter cripple. 

The victorious crew raised a stunning cheer. 

" Silence ! " roared Dodd, with his trumpet. 
" All hands make sail ! " 

He set his courses, bent a new jib, and stood 
out to windward close hauled, in hopes to make a 
good oiling, and then put his ship dead before the 
wind, which was now rising to a stiff breeze. In 
doing this he crossed the crippled pirate's stern, 
within eighty yards ; and sore was the temptation 
to rake him ; but his ammunition being short, and 
his danger being imminent from the other pirate, 
he had the self-command to resist the great tempta- 
tion. The pirates, though in great confusion, and 
expecting a broadside, trained a gun dead aft. 

Dodd saw, and hailed the mizen top : " Can you 
two hinder them from firing that gun 1. " 

" I rattha- think we can," said Fullalove, " eh, 
colonel 1 " and tapped his long rifle. 

The ship's bows no sooner crossed the schooner's 



68 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



stern than a Malay ran aft with a linstock. Pop 
went the colonel's ready carbine, and the Malay 
fell over dead, and the linstock ilew out of his 
hand. A tall Portuguese, with a movement of 
rage, snatched it up, and darted to the gun : the 
Yankee rifle cracked, but a moment too late. 
Bang ! went the pirate's gun, and crashed into the 
Agra's side, and passed nearly through her. 

" Ye missed him ! Ye missed him ! " cried the 
rival Theorist, joyfully. He was mistaken : the 
smoke cleared, and there was the pirate captain 
leaning wounded against the mainmast with a 
Yankee bullet in his shoulder, and his crew utter- 
ing yells of dismay and vengeance. They jumped, 
and raged, and brandished their knives, and made 
horrid gesticulations of revenge ; and the white 
eyeballs of the Malays and Papuans glittered 
fiendishly ; and the wounded captain raised his 
sound arm and had a signal hoisted to his consort, 
and she bore up in chase, and jamming her fore 
latine flat as a board, lay far nearer the wind than 
the Agra could, and sailed three feet to her two 
besides. On this superiority being made clear, 
the situation of the merchant vessel, thoiigh not 
so utterly desperate as before Monk fired his 
lucky shot, became pitiable enough. If she ran 
before the wind, the fresh pirate would cut her 
oft': if she lay to windward, she might postpone 
the inevitable and fatal collision with a foe as 
strong as that she had only escaped by a rare 
piece of luck ; but this would give the crippled 
pirate time to refit and unite to destroy her. 
Add to this the failing ammunition, and the 
thinned ci-ew ! 

Dodd cast his eyes all round the horizon for 
help. 

The sea was blank. 

The bright sun was hidden now ; drops of rain 
fell, and the wind was beginning to sing ; and the 
sea to rise a little. 

" Gentlemen," said he, " let us kneel down and 
pray for wisdom, in this sore strait." 

He and his officers kneeled on the quarter- 
deck. When they rose, Dodd stood rapt about 
a minute; his great thoughtful eye saw no more 
the enemy, the sea, nor anything external ; it 
was turned inward. His officers looked at him 
in silence. 

" Sharpe," said he, at last, " there must be a way 
out of them, with such a breeze as this is now ; if 
we could but see it." 

"Ay, if" groaned Sharpe. 

Dodd mused again. 

" About ship ! " said he, softly, like an absent 
man. 

" Ay, ay, sir." 

" Steer due north ! " said he, still like one whose 
mind was elsewhere. 

When they were distant about a cable's length. 



the fresh pirate, to meet the ship's change of 
tactics, changed his own, put his helm up a 
little, and gave the ship a broadside, well aimed 
but not destructive, the guns being loaded with 
ball. 

Dodd, instead of replying, as was expected, took, 
advantage of the smoke and put his ship before 
the wind. By this unexpected stroke the vessels 
engaged ran swiftly at right angles towards one 
point, and the pirate saw himself menaced with, 
two serious perils ; a collision which might send, 
him to the bottom of the sea in a minute, or a 
broadside delivered at pistol-shot distance, and 
mth no possibility of his making a return. He 
must eithei' put his helm up or down. He chose 
the bolder course, put his helm hard a lee, and 
stood ready to give broadside for broadside. But 
ere he could bring his lee g-uns to bear, he must 
offer his bow for one moment to the ship's broad- 
side ; and in that moment, which Dodd had pro- 
vided for. Monk and his mates raked him fore 
and aft at short distance with all the five guns- 
that were clear on that side ; the carronades fol- 
lowed and mowed him slantwise with grape and 
canister; the almost simultaneous discharge of 
eight guns made the ship tremble, and enveloped, 
her in thick smoke ; loud shrieks and groans were 
heard from the schooner : the smoke cleared ; the 
pirate's mainsail hung on deck, his jib-boom was 
cut off like a carrot and the sail struggling ; his 
foresail looked lace, lanes of dead and wounded 
lay still or writhing on his deck, and his lee scuppers 
ran blood into the sea. 

The ship rushed down the wind, leaving the 
schooner staggered and all abroad. But not for- 
long; the pirate fired his broadside after all, at the 
now flying Agra, split one of the carronades in two, 
and killed a Lascar, and made a hole i]i the fore- 
sail ; this done, he hoisted his mainsail again in a 
trice, sent his wounded below, flung his dead over- 
board, to the horror of their foes, and came after 
the flying ship, yawing and firing his bow chasers. 
The ship was silent. She had no shot to throw 
away. Not only did she take these blows like a 
coward, but all signs of life disappeared on her, 
except two men at the wheel, and the captain on. 
the main gangway. 

Suddenly the yells of the pirates on both sides- 
ceased, and there was a moment of dead silence on 
the sea. 

Yet nothing fresh had happened. 

Yes, this had happened ; the pirates to wind- 
ward, and the pirates to leeward, of the Agra, had. 
found out, at one and the same moment, that the 
merchant captain they had lashed, and bullied, and 
tortured, was a patient but tremendous man. It was 
not only to rake the fresh schooner he had put his 
ship before the wind, but also by a double, daring; 



ATTACKED BY PIRATES. 



69 



masterstroke to hurl liis monster ship bodily on the 
other. Without a foresail she could never get out 
of his way. 

After that solemn silence came a storm of cries 
and curses, as their seamen went to work to fit the 
yard and raise the sail ; while their fighting men 
seized their matchlocks and trained the guns. 
They were well commanded by an heroic able 
villain. Astern the consort thundered ; but the 
Afjras response was a dead silence more awful 
than broadsides. 



sent a mischievous shot, and knocked one of the 
men to atoms at the helm. 

Dodd waved his hand without a word, and 
another man rose from the deck, and took his place 
in silence, and laid his uushaking hand on the 
wheel stained with that man's warm blood whose 
place he took. 

The high ship was now scarce sixty yards 
distant ; she seemed to know : she reared her 
lofty figure-head with great awful shoots into 
the air. 




For then was seen with what majesty the en- 
during Anglo-Saxon fights. 

One of that indomitable race on the gangway, 
one at the foremast, two at the wheel, conned and 
steered the gTeat ship down on a hundred match- 
locks and a grinning broadside, just as they would 
have conned and steered her into a British har- 
bour. 

" Starboard ! " said Dodd, in a deep calm voice, 
with a motion of his hand. 

" Starboard it is." 

The pirate wriggled ahead a little. The man 
forward made a silent signal to Dodd. 

" Port ! " said Dodd, quietly. 

" Port it is." 

But at this critical moment the pirate astern 



Agra " running i own the Pirate. 
(Drawn iij W. H. Oecroii.) 



But now the panting pirates got their new 
foie'5ail hoisted with a joyful shout ; it drew, the 
schooner gathered way, and their furious consort 
close on the Agra's heels just then scourged her 
deck with grape. 

" Port ! " said Dodd, calmly. 

" Port it is." 

The giant prow darted at the escaping pirate. 
That acre of coming canvas took the wind out of 
the swift schooner's foresail ; it flapped : oh, then 
she was doomed ! That awful moment parted the 
races on board her ; the Papuans and Sooloos, their 
black faces livid and blue with horror, leaped 
yelling into the sea, or crouched and whimpered ; 
the yellow Malays and brown Portuguese, though 
blanched to one colour now, turned on death like 
dying panthers, fired two cannon slap into the 
ship's bows, and snapped their muskets and match- 
locks at their solitary executioner on the ship's^ 



70 



GLEANINGS PROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



gangway, and out flew their knives like crushed 
-wasp stings. Crash ! the Indiamau's cut-water 
in thick smoke beat in the schooner's broadside : 
down went her masts to leeward, like fishing-rods 
-whipping the water ; there was a horrible shrieking 
yell ; wild forms leaped off on the Agra, and were 
Jiacked to pieces almost ere they reached the deck 



— a surge, a chasm in the sea, filled with an instant 
rush of engulphing waves, a long, awful, grating, 
grinding noise, never to be forgotten in this world, 
all along under the -ship's keel — and the fearful 
majestic monster passed on over the blank she had 
made, with a pale crew standing silent and awe- 
struck on her deck. 



THE PEISONER OF CHILLON. 



[By Lord Btkon.] 




Y hair is grey, but not "with years, 
Nor grew it white 
In a single night. 
As men's have grown from sudden 
fears ; 
My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil. 

But rusted with a vile repose, 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 
And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are bann'd, and barr'cl — forbidden fare ; 
But this was for my father's faith 
I suffer 'd chains and courted death ; 
That father perish'd at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake ; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place ; 
We were seven — who now are one. 

Six in youth, and one in age, 
Finish'd as they had begun. 

Proud of persecution's rage ; 
One in fire, and two in field, 
Their belief with blood have seal'd ; 
Dying as their father died. 
For the God their foes denied ; 
Three were in a dungeon cast, 
■Of whom this wreck is left the last. 

There are seven pillars of Gothic mould. 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old ; 
'There are seven columns, massy and grey, 
Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, 
A sunbeam which hath lost its way. 
And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left ; 
'Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp : 
And in each pillar there is a ring. 

And in each ring there is a chain ; 
That iron is a cankering thing. 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
'With marks that will not wear away, 
Till I have done with this new day. 
Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 



For years — I cannot count them o'er, 
I lost their long and heavy score 
When my last brother droop'd and died. 
And I lay living by his side. 

They chain'd us each to a column stone. 
And we were three — yet, each alone : 
We could not move a single pace, 
We could not see each other's face. 
But with that pale and livid light , 
That made us strangers in our sight : 
And thus together — yet apart, 
Fetter'd in hand, but joined in heart, 
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth, 
To hearken to each other's speech, 
And each turn comforter to each 
With some new hope, or legend old. 
Or song heroically bold ; 
But even these at length grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreary tone. 
An echo of the dungeon-stone, 

A grating sound — not full and free 
As they of yore were wont to be : 
It might be fancy — but to me 
They never sounded like our own. 

I was the eldest of the three. 
And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do — and did my best — 

And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved. 

Because our mother's brow was given 

To him — with eyes as blue as heaven. 
For him my soul was sorely moved : 

And truly might it be distress'd 

To see such bird in such a nest ; 

For he was beautiful as day — 
(When day was beautiful to me 
As to young eagles, being free) — 
A polar day, which will not see 

A sunset till its summer's gone. 
Its sleepless summer of long light, 

The snow-clad offspring of the sun ! 
And thus he was as pure and bright. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLOK 



71 



And in his natural spirit gay, 
With tears for nought but others' Uls, 
And then they flow'd like mountain rills, 
Unless he could assuage the woe 
Which he abhorr'd to view below. 

The other was as pure of mind. 
But form'd to combat with his kind ; 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 
And perish'd in the foremost rank 

With joy : — but not in chains to pine : 
His spirit wither'd with their clank, 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so perchance in sooth did mine : 
But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relica of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hUls, 

Had follow'd there the deer and wolf ; 

To him this dungeon was a gulf, 
And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 

Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls : 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
From Chillon's snow-white battlement, 

Which round about the wave enthralls ; 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a living grave 
Below the surface of the lake 
The dark vault lies wherein we lay, 
We heard it ripple night and day ; 

Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; 
And I have felt the winter's spray 
Wash through the bars when winds were high 
And wanton in the happy sky ; 

And then the very rock hath rock'd, 

And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, 
Because I could have smil'd to see 
The death that would have set me free. 

I said my nearer brother pined, 
I said his mighty heart declined. 
He loathed and put away his food ; 
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 
For we were used to hunter's fare. 
And for the like had little care : 
The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat, 
Our bread was such as captives' tears 
Have moisten'd many a thousand years, 
Since man first pent his fellow-men 
Like brutes within an iron den : 
But v^hat were these to us or him "i 
These wasted not his heart or limb ; 
My brother's soul was of that mould 
Which in a palace had grown cold. 



Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side ; 
But why delay the truth 1 — he died. 
I saw, and could not hold his head, 
Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead — 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain,. 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died — and they unlock'd his chain, 
And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
His corse in dust whereon the day 
Might shine — it was a foolish thought. 
But then within my brain it wrought. 
That even in death his freeborn breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
I might have spared my idle prayer — 
They coldly laugh'd — and laid him there t 
The flat and turfless earth above 
The being we so much did love ; 
His empty chain above it leant, 
Such murder's fitting monument ! 

But he, the favourite and the flower. 

Most cherish'd since his natal hour, 

His mother's image in fair face. 

The infant love of all his race. 

His martyr'd father's dearest thought. 

My latest care, for whom I sought 

To hoard my life, that his might be 

Less wretched now, and one day free ;, 

He, too, who yet had held untired 

A spirit natural or inspired — ■ 

He, too, was struck, and day by day 

Was wither'd on the stalk away. 

Oh God ! it is a fearful thing 

To see the human soul take wing 

In any shape, in any mood : 

I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 

I've seen it on the breaking ocean 

Strive with a swoln convulsive motion. 

I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of sin delirious with its dread : 

But these were horrors — this was woe 

UnmrK'd with such — but sure and slow r 

He faded, and so calm and meek, 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak. 

So tearless, yet so tender — kind. 

And grieved for those he left behind ; 

With all the while a cheek whose bloom 

Was as a mockery of the tomb, 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow's ray — 

An eye of most transparent light, 

That almost made the dungeon bright. 

And not a word of murmur — not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise, 



72 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



For I was sunk in silence— lost 

In this last loss, of all the most ; 

And then the sighs he would suppress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness, 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less : 

I listen'd, but I could not hear — 

I call'd, for I was wild with fear ; 

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be thus admonished ; 

I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound, 

And rush'd to him ; — I found him not, 

/ only stirr'd in this black spot, 

/ only lived — / only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 

The last — the sole — the dearest link 



I had no thought, no feeling — none — 
Among the stones I stood a stone, 
And was, scarce conscious what I wist. 
As shrubless crags within the mist ; 
For all was blank, and bleak, and grey ; 
It was not night — it was not day ; 
It was not even the dungeon-light, 
So hateful to my heavy sight, 
But vacancy absorbing space. 
And fixedness — without a place : 
There were no stars — no earth — no time — 
No check — no change — no good — no crime- 
But silence, and a stirless breath 
Which neither was of life nor death ; 
A sea of stagnant idleness, 
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! 




The Interiok of the Dungeon at Chillon. 



Between me and the eternal brink, 

Which bound me to my failing race, 

Was broken in this fatal place. 

One on the earth, and one beneath- 

My brothers — both had ceased to breathe ■ 

I took that hand which lay so still, 

Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 

I had not strength to stir, or strive, 

But felt that I was still alive — 

A frantic feeling, when we know 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die, 
I had no earthly hope but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death. 

What next befell me then and there 
I know not well — I never knew— 

First came the loss of light, and air, 
And then of darkness too : 



A light broke in upon my brain, — 

It was the carol of a bird ; 
It ceased, and then it came again. 

The sweetest song ear ever heard. 
And mine was thankful till my eyes 
Ran over with the glad surprise. 
And they that moment could not see 
I was the mate of misery ; 
But then by dull degrees came back 
My senses to their wonted track ; 
I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
Close slowly round me as before, 
I saw the glimmer of the sun 
Creeping as it before had done. 
But through the crevice where it came 
That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame, 

-\nd tamer than upon the tree ; 
A lovely bird, with azure wings, 
And song that said a thousand things. 

And seem'd to say them all for me ! 




' I HAD NOT STRENGTH TO STIE OE STRIVE.' 



"TUB PRISONER OP C/TfLLOX" {p. 12). 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



73 



I never saw its like before, 

I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 

It seem'd like me to want a mate, 

But was not half so desolate. 

And it was come to love me when 

None lived to love me so again, 

And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 

Had brought me back to feel and think. 

I know not if it late were free, 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine. 
But knowing well captivity. 

Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine ! 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise ; 
For— Heaven forgive that thought ! the while 
Wliich made me both to weep and smile ; 



Along my cell from side to side. 
And up and down, and then athwart. 
And tread it over every part ; 
And round the pillars one by one, 
Returning where my walk begun. 
Avoiding only, as 1 trod, 
My brothers' graves without a sod ; 
For if I thought with heedless tread 
My step profaned their lowly bed. 
My breath came gaspingly and thick. 
And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick 

I made a footing in the wall. 
It was not therefrom to escape. 

For I had buried one and all 
Who loved me in a human shape ; 




\IEW OF ChILLOK. 



I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
My brother's soul come down to me ; 
But then at last away it flew, 
And then 'twas mortal well I knew. 
For he would never thus have flown, 
And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
Lone — as the corse within its shroud. 
Lone — as a solitary cloud, 

A single cloud on a sunny day, 
While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere. 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 

A kind of change came in my fate, 
My keepers grew compassionate ; 
I know not what had made them so, 
They were inured to sights of woe, 
But so it was : — my broken chain 
With links unfasten'd did remain, 
And it was liberty to stride 

J 41 



And the whole earth would henceforth be 

A wider prison unto me : 

No child — no sire — no kin had I, 

No partner in my misery ; 

I thought of this, and I was glad, 

For thought of them had made me mad ; 

But I was curious to ascend 

To my barr'd windows, and to bend 

Once more, upon the mountains high. 

The quiet of a loving eye. 

I saw them— and they were the same. 

They were not changed like me in frame ; 

I saw their thousand years of snow 

On high — their wide long lake below 

And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 

I heard the torrents leap and gush 

O'er channell'd rock and broken bush ; 

I saw the white-wall'd distant town. 

And whiter sails go skimming down : 

And then there was a little isle, 

Which in ray very face did smile, 



7i 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



Tlie only one in view ; 
A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 
But in it tliere were three tall trees, 
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze. 
And by it there were waters flowing. 
And on it there were young flowers growing, 

Of gentle breath and hue. 
The fish swam by the castle wall. 
And they seem'd joyous each and all ; 
The eagle rode the rising blast, 
Methought he never flew so fast 
As then to me he seem'd to fly. 
And then new tears came in my eye, 
And I felt troubled— and would fain 
I had not left my recent chain ; 
And when I did descend again. 
The darkness of my dim abode 
Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
It was as is a new -dug grave, 
Closing o'er one we sought to save, — 
And yet my glance, too much oppress 'd, 
Had almost need of such a rest. 

It might be months, or years, or days, 
I kept no count — I took no note. 



I had no hope my eyes to raise. 

And clear them of their dreary mote ; 
At last men came to set me free, 
I ask'd not whj', and reck'd not 
where. 
It was at length the same to me, 
Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 
I learn'd to love despair. 
And thus when they appear'd at last, 
And all my bonds aside were cast. 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage — and all my own I 
And half I felt as they were come 
To tear me from a second home : 
With spiders I had friendship made, 
And watch'd them in their sullen trade. 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play, 
And why should I feel less than they ? 
We were all inmates of one place, 
And I, the monarch of each race, 
Had power to kill — yet, sti'ange to tell I 
In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — 
My very chains and I grew friends, 
So much a long communion tends 
To make us what we are : — even I 
Eegain'd my freedom with a sigh. 



CHECK TO A BUEGLAE. 



[Bj- George Maktille Fenn.] 

Slir^^ii' ND they took away all the plate at the 
JRfjB Mf omithers , dear. 
Il^fe^ " Only electro, my dear," I said. 
5^ fe'S' ' " But it is so dreadful, love. 



Only think 
if they were to come here next." 

iZ" " Ah, to be sure," I said. " They might 

I steal the baby." 

" How can you be so cruel 1 " 

" I wonder how much a baby is worth to people 
of that class." 

" I declare, Fred, if you keep on talking such 
.stufi', I won't stop in the studio." 

" Do you know what they do with them ?" 

" No. With what ? " 

" Stolen babies." 

" No. Of course not ! How can you talk such 
nonsense ! " 

" Let them out for hire : a woman has a couple 
in arms, two more a size or so larger cling to 
her skirts, and two more support her beloved 
husband, who scrapes a psalm tune on an old 
fiddle." 

" Do you msh to make me cry, Fred ? " 

" My dear, tears improve you ; but all the 
same, you are already so near perfection that I 
do not wish to see you improved. Still, if 



baby were stolen, what cpiiet nights we should 
have." 

Silence in the studio for a while, broken only 
by the click, click of a busy needle, and the- 
creaking of my easel as I shift its position. Then, 
my wfey goes on — 

" I think, dear, we really ought to move." 

"Why, my dear 1" 

" Why 1 Because it's dreadful to live in a place 
with such horrible robberies always going on." 

"And leave King Henry's Eoad? Why, what 
place could be a better one for wives 1 " 

" I see it's of no use to talk to you, to-day, 
Fred," says little wifey ; " you have one of your 
teasing fits on, so I may as well hold my tongue." 

"No, my dear, pray proceed— 'tis like the silver 
murmur of the brook upon mine ear, and sweetens- 
the task I have in hand." 

" Stuff ! " 
I That is little wifey's exclamation, in a very 
snatchy, pettish tone ; but she likes it all the same, 
and every now and then the little head will turn in 
my direction. At the end of a minute the burglars 
break in once more, and she continues — 

"There have been no less than ten robberies 
since Christmas, Fred." 



CHECK TO A BURGLAR. 



75 



" Indeed, my dear ! Then I shall start a Bur- 
glary Insurance Company. Why not 1 "' 

" Did you hear how they cleared out the 
Lemaines — those French people 1 " 

" No, my dear, I did not." 

" Oh, but it was dreadful ! They took every- 
tliing — even to the table linen." 

" Well, my dear, if they come here — bless 'em — 
what will they get? Nothing wortTi having; for 
our poverty is a sweet blessing in disguise, which 
frees us from the sad anxieties of those who suffer 
from a plethora of plate, a weight of watches, or a 
generosity of gems. We have our tables and our 
chairs — I my paints and brushes, you your needle- 
work and — and, well, your good looks, which Time 
alone can steal. The only mutual property, it 
seems to me, that we could lose by the burglarious 
burgling of burglars is the baby, and him you 
homoeopathically preserve. " 

I did chat the matter over sagely enough while 
we had our walk, and the little wife agreed that 
it would not be wise to run away from a danger 
that might never come — in fact, we might be 
running into its very teeth. But, all the same, 
it was a terrible nuisance, this constant recurrence 
of petty robberies— keeping, as it did, the hearts 
of all the hens and chickens of the neighbourhood 
in a constant state of flutter lest the next visit of 
the fox should be to their particular roost. I, for 
one, had spoken to the inspector of poUce after the 
upset at our friends', the Wilkins's, and he had 
very sensibly remarked that they (the police) 
■could not be everywhere at once. 

"You see, sir," he said, "it's just this. They 
plant a robbery, and work according. By a little 
watching they get to know our times for being in 
■ every street — for we can't work at random, we must 
liave our regular beats, so as to check the men. 
Well, sir, they see a man out of such and such a 
street, and they know how long it will be before 
he comes back, and go to work in the meantime." 

A fortnight slipped by, during which I worked 
hard at the " Bhie Belles " — and the burglars 
rested, for we heard no more of their depredations ; 
when one day our studio was entered by a brigand 
— a swarthy-looking, black-bearded fellow, in 
olive velvet, very much worn, and a soft sombrero. 
He looked a regular burglar of the order of the 
long knife ; but it was only Tom Norris, who had 
-come straight to us from Spain, after a six months' 
stay. And a treat it was, I can tell you, to look 
through his portfolio of sketches a la Phillip- 
such dark-eyed girls, such muleteers, such naked 
■children tumbling about amongst melons and 
.grapes. Then there were fat friars and lean nuns ; 
Moorish gateways, and bits of sun-scorched rock ; 
and we were just in the midst of our ecstasies over 
a Spanish inn amongst the mountains, when a 
thought struck me, and I said — 



" I say, Tom, where are you going to sleep ? " 

" Oh, somewhere in Charlotte Street," he said. 
" I haven't thought about it yet." 

Milly and I exchanged glances. 

" Ours is only a Kttle iron bedstead, Tom, and 
a scrap of carpet on the floor ; but — " 

" My dear fellow," he exclaimed, " a clean 
railway rug and a floor where you can say that 
insects of a virulent disposition do not hold 
carnival would be a place where I should sleep in 
bliss." 

So it was settled that Tom should stay. 

As the soft spring evening closed in, we had a 
grand debauch, ililly brought out the great 
glass jug, into which was emptied a shilling bottle 
of claret, and a bottle of soda water ; while after 
throwing up the great, heavy plate-glass sash of 
the studio window, we sat and smoked the 
Spanish cigarettes, of which Tom had brought a 
store. 

There was so much picture lore to canvass, that 
it was twelve o'clock before we were all snug in 
our rooms. Then I said my catechism, and we 
went to bed. 

By the way, I may as well explain that my 
catechism is repeated to Milly every night ; and 
the questions are somewhat of this kind :— 

" Are you sure the kitchen fire is quite out ? 

" Did you turn off the gas 1 

" Was the studio window secured 1 

" Has Mary put out her light ? " 

Et cetera, et cetera. Then I put out our own, 
and sleep fell upon our humble roof. 

I was just busy paying the Spanish woman for 
the great, luscious water-melon she had sold me 
under the walls of the old palace, when a fierce 
brigand fellow presented a formidable, bell- 
mouthed trabuco at my head, and bade me give 
up my cash. I closed with him in a fierce struggle, 
but it was all in vain ; he shook me and tossed me 
as he liked, and all the while he kept on saying — 

" Fred !— Fred ! Oh, pray do wake up." 

" Eh i What's the matter 1 " 

" I'm sure there's somebody breaking in ! " 

" Bother ! " 

I was drawing the clothes up over my ears, when 
Milly began to sob. 

" Oh, pray believe me, dear. There is indeed 
some one getting in." 

" Didn't you send me downstairs a month ago 
because the wind rattled the front door 1 " I 
growled. 

" Yes, yes, my dear ; but I'm .sure this time." 

"So you were when it was only Jane snoring 
upstairs." 

" But listen, dear, yourself, " 

" So I did when the sweeps came next door at 
six o'clock." 



76 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



" But I heard it as plain as possible — a heavy, 
dull noise, and then a sharp snap, like a window- 
fastening forced back. I'm sure it's thieves." 

" My dear," I said, quietly, " you've got burglars 
on the brain. I shan't get up so that's flat. Go 
to sleep ; no one will come here," 

" Then let me get up and get a light — I'll go, 
dear." 

" Madam, my manhood's honour " 

Bang! There was a thud which shook our 
window, and a strange, gurgling noise succeeded 
it, but smothered and muffled, as if some one was 
being suffocated. 

"There! " exclaimed Milly, pitifuUjr, "we shall 
all be murdered. Pray, give me the baby, dear." 

" It's only Tom Norris dreaming about bull-fights 
in Spain," I said, hastily drawing on some clothes ; 
but though I spoke in tones of credence, and 
could hear some one moving upstairs, I was far 
from satisfied. 

Lastly, I struck a light, and opened the door, 
just as one was opened overhead. 

" Anything the matter, old fellow '? " 

" Anything the matter, old fellow 1 " 

These two questions crossed on the way up and 
down. - 

" I thought you were queer ! " 

" I thought you were queer ! " 

These I'emarks, too, crossed ; and then we took 
counsel for a moment and listened, for all was 
perfectly still. 

" Well, I'll go down and see," I said ; for that 
was absolutely necessary, though I confess I did 
not like the task. 

I had hardly uttered the words before there 
3ame up, evidently from the studio, a sound as of 
the window being rattled furiously, then a hand 
was beating at it evidently, and before we could 
reach the door, the whole house was filled with a 
most dismal howl that sounded hardly human. 
And again, in an instant — 

" Help, hely ! Oh, pray, help ! " 

" This is a rum start," said Tom Norris, as I 
unlocked the door and threw it open ; when we 
entered together, and I held up the light above my 
head. 

I have seen strange sights, but that was one of 
the most strange ; for there, half strangled and 
with starting eyes, was the head of a man appa- 
rently being gaiillotined by the window sash, 
which had fallen right across his neck, holding 
him securely there, so that it was impossible to 
move. 

I could read at a glance how it happened, for 
the broken sash-lines hung down into the room. 
The fallow had forced back the catch, and thrown 
up the window to get in ; when, in a most inop- 
portune moment for him, the lines had snapped, 
letting the heavy, one-paned sash fall — fortunately 



for the scoundrel — upon his shoulders, or it must 
have been his death. As it was, he had wriggled 
and struggled hard, striving in vain to free him- 
self, till the sash rested upon his neck, where it 
glided down more tightly ; and, as his efforts grew 
weaker and his hands impotent to hold it up, he 
hung there securely trapped, with nothing left for- 
him to do but howl for help. 

" Well, you're a pretty sort of a scoundrel, you 
are," said Tom, coolly. 

" For Heaven's sake, sir, let me go. Oh, pray, . 
sir, let me out, and I'll never do so any more. I 
.shall be dead directly." 

" And a precious good job too," said Tom. 
" We could get on very well without burglars." 

" But, please, sir," said the poor wretch, in stifled 
tones, " I aint took nothin'." 

" How many pals have you got out there 1 " 

" Oh, sir, 'strue as goodness, sir, only two, sir ;. 
and the cowards cut, sir, as soon as they saw me 
here — hooked it like a pair o' sneaks, sir; but 
only let me get out, sir, please, sir, and I'll blow 
on 'em both, sir. 0-h-h-h ! " 

Here the poor wretch uttered such a howl, that 
I ran to the window. 

"No, no, let him be," said Tom, coolly. "He 
wont hurt. I'll see to him. You go and teR 
them upstairs that we've caught the scoundrel, and, 
they need not be afraid." 

I ran and performed the task, and came back, 
to find Tom arranging the light so that it fell upon- 
the hm-glar's face. 

" Hadn't we better drag him in, and tie Mm- 
hand and foot ? " I said. 

" Yes, presently," said Tom coolly ; " but L 
haven't done with him yet." 

" Oh ! " groaned the burglar in a faint voice. 

" Now, look here, young fellow," said Tom,,, 
giving him a sharp cuft' on the ear, " stop that row,, 
please." 

" But I can't breathe, governor ; 'strue as good- 
ness, I can't." 

" 'Tis rather tight," said Tom, putting his hand- 
to the fellow's neck. "What do you say?" he 
continued, turning to me. " Shall we press the 
sash down hard, and put him out of his misery? " 

The poor wretch half screwed his head round to- 
gaze at the speaker. 

" What ! " he shrieked hoarsely, " you cowards : ' 
murder me, would youP and you call your- 
selves " 

" Pow ! " 

The speech was cut short by Tom dabbing a. 
gi-eat oily painter's cloth, gag-like, against the= 
fellow's mouth. 

"Now, look here," said Tom. "You make 
another sound, or so much as move, and I squeeze : 
your throat with that sash. Here, stick this book, 
under edgewise, so as to ease his neck a little.. 



CHECK TO A BURGLAR. 



n 



There, that will do. Now, hold on, my lad, and be 
quiet." 

The fellow clung convulsively with his hands 
on the sill, his eyes rolling horribly as they 
followed Tom Norris's movements, my curiosity 
being moved to the utmost. 

" What are you going to do ? " 

" To do? " said Tom, catching up a board, brush, 
and some Indian ink — " take him, of course. 
What model could ever do that so naturally % 
Make your hay, my boy, while the sun shines." 



the same moment the burglar groaned, faintly^ 
" I can't stand this much longer, guv'nor— pray 
let me go." 

And a heavy knock came at the front door. 

I opened to the police, who had been summoned, 
by Milly from the front window, and when two 
men entered my studio, their satisfied, grim ex- 
pression was so telling, that Tom wanted to make 
another sketch. 

However, that was not done, and he was satis- 
fied with that which he had made, helping merrily 




' Tom painted away." 



" But that disto.ted face ! Oh, come, Tom, let's 
have in the police, and hand him over." 

" No, my boy — not if I know it. Too great 
veneration for my art." 

And he went on painting away. 

" But of what good 1 " 

" What good 1 Why, my dear boy, where are 
your eyes 1 A Spanish malefactor in the garotte ! 
Titus Oates in the pillory ! Splendid subjects, 
both of them. You keep him quiet, and if I get 
a good sketch, I could almost forgive him, and let 
him go." 

I kept the poor wretch quiet, though he groaned 
heavily, and must, I am sure, have suffered no 
light punishment. Then Tom painted away with 
the rapidity of a finished hand ; but at one and 



to drag in our prisoner, while I held up the heavy 
sash. 

" Well, sir, all I can say is," said the sergeant, 
as he fitted on the handcuffs to the shivering 
wretch's wrists, " if you set that there trap to ketch 
burglars, it was very clever ; only," he continued 
rather contemptuously, as he glanced i-ound the 
bare studio, " I don't see no bait." 

I think I need say no more than that her 
Majesty is to provide for our captive for some 
years to come ; and that Tom Norris made a 
really telling Spanish picture. 

As for the burglars, their gang was broken up,, 
for our friend did turn Queen's evidence ; and. 
our pleasant district has since enjoyed a domestia 
peace which I trust may last. 



78 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



ME. AJSTD MES. TIBBS AT VAUXHALL. 

fBy Oliver Goldsmith.])' 



*TP^ HE people of London are as fond of walking 
"JK' as our friends at Pekin of riding ; one of 

-^ the principal entertainments of the citizens 
liere in summer is to repair about nightfall to a 
S'arden not far from town, where they walk about, 
show their best clothes and best faces, and listen 
to a concert provided for the occasion. 

I accepted an invitation a few evenings ago from 
my old friend, the man in black, to be one of a 
party that was to sup there ; and at the appointed 
hour waited upon him at his lodgings. There I 
found the company assembled and expecting my 
arrival. Our party consisted of my friend, in 
superlative finery, his stockings rolled, a black 
velvet waistcoat which was formerly new, and a 
grey wig combed down in imitation of hair ; a 
])awnbroker's widow, of whom, by-the-by, my 
friend was a professed admirer, dressed out in 
.green damask, with three gold rings on every 
finger ; Mr. Tibbs, the second-rate beau I have 
formerly described, together with his lady, in 
flimsy silk, dirty gauze instead of linen, and a hat 
.as big as an umbrella. 

Our first difficulty was in settling how we should 
set out. Mrs. Tibbs had a natural aversion to the 
water, and the widow being a little in flesh, as 
warmly protested against walking ; a coach was 
therefore agreed upon, which being too small to 
carry five, Mr. Tibbs consented to sit in his wife's 
lap. 

In this manner, therefore, we set forward, being 
entertained by the way with the bodings of Mr. 
Tibbs, who assured us, he did not expect to see a 
single creature for the evening above the degree of 
a cheesemonger ; that this was the last night of 
the gardens, and that consequently we should be 
pestered with the nobility and gentry from Thames 
Street and Crooked Lane, with several other pro- 
phetic ejaculations, probably inspired by the un- 
-easiness of his situation. 



We were called to a consultation by Mr. Tibbs 
.and the rest of the company to know in what 
manner we were to lay out the evening to the 
greatest advantage. Mrs. Tibbs was for keeping 
the genteel walk of the garden, where she observed 
there was always the very best company ; the 
widow, on the contrary, who came but once a 
season, was for securing a good standing-place to 
see the water-works, which she assured us would 
begin in less than an hour at farthest ; a dispute 
therefore began, and as it was managed between 
4wo of very opposite characters, it threatened to 



grow more bitter at eveiy reply. Mrs. Tibbs 
wondered how people could pretend to know the 
polite world who had received all their rudiments 
of breeding behind a counter ; to which the other 
replied, that though some people sat behind 
counters, yet they could sit at the head of their 
own tables too, and carve three good dishes of hot 
meat whenever they thought proper, which was 
more than some people could say for themselves, 
that hardly knew a rabbit and onions from a green 
goose and gooseberries. 

It is hard to say where this might have ended, 
had not the husband, who probably knew the 
impetuosity of his wife's disposition, proposed to 
end the dispute by adjourning to a box, and try if 
there was anything to be had for supper that was 
supportable. To this we all consented, but here a 
new distress arose ; Mr. and Mrs. Tibbs would sit 
in none but a genteel box, a box where they might 
see and be seen ; one, as they expressed it, in the 
very focus of public view : but such a box was 
not easy to be obtained, for though we were 
perfectly convinced of our own gentUity, and the 
gentility of our appearance, yet we found it a 
difficult matter to persuade the keepers of the 
boxes to be of our opinion ; they chose to reserve 
genteel boxes for what they judged more genteel 
company. 

At last, however, we were fixed, though some- 
what obscurely, and supplied with the usual enter- 
tainment of the place. The widow found the 
supper excellent, but Mrs. Tibbs thought every- 
thing detestable. " Come, come, my dear," cries 
the husband, by way of consolation, " to be sure 
we can't find such dressing here as we have at lord 
Crump's or lady Crimp's ; but for Vauxhall 
dressing it is pretty good ; it is not their victuals 
indeed I find fault with, but their wine ; their 
wine," cries he, drinking off a glass, " indeed, is 
most abominable." 

By this last contradiction the widow was fairly 
conquered in point of politeness. She perceived 
now that she had no pretensions in the world to 
taste, her very senses were vulgar, since she had 
praised detestable custard, and smacked at 
wretched wine ; she was therefore content to 
yield the victory, and for the rest of the night to 
listen and improve. It is true, she would now 
and then forget herself, and confess she was 
pleased, but they soon brought her back again to 
miserable refinement. She once praised the 
painting of the box in which we were sitting, but 
was soon convinced that such paltry pieces ought 
rather to excite horror than satisfaction ; she 



MK. AND MRS. TIBBS AT VAUXHALL. 



7» 



ventured again to commend one of the singers, 
but Mrs. Tibbs soon let her know, in the style of 
a connoisseur, that the singer in question had 
neither ear, voice, nor judgment. 

Mr. Tibbs, no'w willing to prove that his wife's 
pretensions to music were just, intreated her to 
favour the company with a song ; but to this she 
gave a positive denial, "for you know very well,my 
dear," says she, "that I am not in voice to-day, 
and when one's voice is not equal to one's judg- 
ment, what signifies singing 1 besides, as there is 
no accompaniment, it would be but spoiling 
music." All these excuses, however, were over- 
ruled by the rest of the company, who, though 
one would think they already had music enough, 
joined in the intreaty. But particularly the 
widow, now willing to convince the company of 
her breeding, pressed so warmly, that she seemed 
determined to take no refusal. At iast then the 
lady complied, and after humming for some 
minutes, began with such a voice, and such aifec- 
tation, as I could perceive gave but little satisfac- 
tion to any except her husband. He sat with 
rapture in his eye, and beat time with his hand 
on the table. 

You must observe, my friend, that it is the 
custom of this country, when a lady or gentleman 
happens to sing, for the company to sit as mute 
and motionless as statues. Every feature, every 
limb, must seem to correspond in fixed attention, 
and while the song continues, they are to remain 
in a state of universal petrifaction. In this 
mortifying situation we had continued for some 
time, listening to the song, and looking with tran- 
quiUity, when the master of the box came to 



inform us that the water-works were going to- 
begin. At this information I could instantly per- 
ceive the widow bounce from her seat ; but 
correcting herself, she sat down again, repressed 
by motives of good breeding. Mrs. Tibbs, who 
had seen the water-works a hundred times, 
resolving not to be interrupted, continued her 
song without any share of mercy, nor had the 
smallest pity on our impatience. The widow's 
face, I own, gave me high entertainment ; in it I 
could plainly read the struggle she felt between 
good breeding and curiosity ; she talked of the 
water-works the whole evening before, and seemed 
to have come merely in order to see them ; but 
then she could not bounce out in the very middle 
of a song, for that would be forfeiting all preten- 
sions to high life, or high-lived company, ever 
after. Mrs. Tibbs therefore kept on singing, and 
we continued to listen, till at last, when the song 
was just concluded, the waiter came to inform us 
that the water-works were over. 

" The water-works over ! " cried the widow t 
" the water-works over already 1 that's impossible, 
they can't be over so soon ! " " It is not my 
business," replied the feUow, "to contradict your 
ladyship, I'U run again and see ; " he went, and 
soon returned with a confirmation of the dismal 
tidings. No ceremony could now bind my friend's- 
disappointed mistress, she testified her displeasure 
in the openest manner ; in short, she now began 
to find fault in turn, and at last, insisted upon 
going home, just at the time that Mr. and Mrs. 
Tibbs assured the company that the polite hovirs 
were going to begin, and that the ladies would 
instantaneously be entertained with the horns. 



THE TIGER. 



[By WiLT.iiai BI.4KE.] 



' Tiger, Tiger, burning bright 
In the forests of the night. 
What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry 'f 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burnt the fire of thine eyes 1 
On what wings dare he aspire ] 
What the hand dare seize the fire ? 

And what shoulder, and what art 
Could twist the sinews of thy heart 1 
And where thy heart began to beat. 
What dread hand, and what dread feet ! 



What the hammer 1 What the chain ? 
In what furnace was thy brain 1 
What the anvil 1 What dread .grasp 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp ? 

When the stars threw do^vn their spears^ 
And water'd heaven with their tears, 
Did He smile His work to see 1 
Did He who made the lamb make thee ? 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright 
In the forests of the night, 
What immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry l 



80 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 




THE DEEAM OF EUGENE AEAM. 

[By Thomas Hood.] 



.VAS in the prime of summer time, 
An evening calm and cool, 

And four-and-twenty happy boys 
Came bounding out of school. 

There were some that ran and some 
that leapt, 
Like troutleta in a pool. 

Away they sped with gamesome minds, 

And souls untouched by sin ; 
To a level mead they came, and there 

They drave the wickets in : 
Pleasantly shone the setting sun 

Over the town of Lynn. 

Like sportive deer they coursed about, 

And shouted as they ran, — 
Turning to m'rth all things of earth, 

As only boyhood can ; 
But the usher sat remote from all, 

A melancholy man ! 

His hat was off, his vest apart. 
To catch heaven's blessed breeze. 

For a burning thought was in his brow, 
And his bosom ill at ease : 

So he lean'd his head o i his hands, and read 
The book between his knees ! 

Leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er. 

Nor ever glanced aside ; 
For the peace of his soul he read that book 

In the golden eventide : 
Much study had made him very lean, 

And pale, and leaden-eyed. 

At last he .shut the ponderous tome, 

With a fast and fervent grasp 
He strain 'd the dusky covers close. 

And fix'd the brazen hasp : 
" Oh God, could I so close my mind. 

And clasp it with a clasp ! " 

Then leaping on his feet upright, 

Some moody turns he took, — 
Now up the mead, then down the mead. 

And past a .shady nook, — 
And lo ! he saw a little boy 

That pored upon a book ! 

• My gentle lad, what is't you read — 

Romance or fairy fable ? 
Or is it some historic page, 

Of kings and crowns unstable ? " 
The young boy gave an upward glance, — 

" It is ' The Death of Abel.' " 



The usher took six hasty strides. 

As smit with sudden pain, — 
Six hasty strides beyond the place, 

Then slowly back again ; 
And down he sat beside the lad, 

And talk'd with him of Cain ; 

And long since then, of bloody men, 

Whose deeds tradition saves ; 
Of lonely folk cut off unseen. 

And hid in sudden graves ; 
Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn, 

And murders done in caves ; 

And how the sprites of injured men 
Shriek upward from the sod, — 

Aye, how the ghostly hand will point 
To show the burial clod ; 

And unknown facts of guilty acts 
Are seen in dreams from God ! 

He told how murderers walk the earth 

Beneath the curse of Cain, — 
With crimson clouds before their eyes. 

And flames about their brain : 
For blood has left upon their souls 

Its everlasting stain ! 

" And well," quoth he, " I know, for truth, 
Their pangs must be extreme, — 

Woe, woe, unutterable woe — 
Who spill life's sacred stream ! 

For why 1 Methought, last night, I wrought 
A murder in a dream ! 

" One that had never done me wrong — 

A feeble man, and old : 
I led him to a lonely field. 

The moon .shone clear and cold. 
Now here, said I, this man shall die. 

And I will have his gold I 

" Two sudden blows with a ragged stick, 

And one with a heavy stone. 
One hurried gash with a hasty knife, — 

And then the deed was done : 
There was nothing lying at my foot 

But lifeless flesh and bone ! 

" Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, 

That could not do me ill ; 
And yet I feared him all the more, 

For lying there so still : 
There was a manhood in his look. 

That murder could not kill I 



THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 



81 



" And lo ! the universal air 

Seem'd lit with ghastly flame, — 

Ten thousand, thousand dreadful eyes 
Were looking down in blame : 

I took the dead man by the hand, 
And called upon his name ! 

•' O God, it made me quake to see 
Such sense within the slain ! 

But when I touched the lifeless clay. 
The blood gushed out amain ! 

For every clot a burning spot 
Was scorching in my brain ! 



" Down went the corse with a hoUow plunge. 

And vanished in the pool ; 
Anon I cleansed my bloody hands. 

And washed my forehead cool, 
And sat among the urchins young, 

That evening in the school ! 

" Oh heaven, to think of their white souls, 

And mine so black and grim ! 
I could not share in childish prayer, 

Nor join in evening hymn : 
Like a devil of the pit I seem'd. 

Mid holy cherubim ! 




Down hl s^^t beside the lad 



" My head was like an ardent coal. 

My heart as solid ice ; 
My wretched, wretched soul, I knew. 

Was at the devil's price : 
A dozen times I -groaned ; the dead 

Had never groaned but twice ! 

"And now, from forth the frowning sky 
From the heaven's topmost height, 
I heard a voice — the awful voice 
Of the Blood-Avenging Sprite : — 

' Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead. 
And hide it from my sight ! ' 

•' I took the dreary body up, 
And cast it in a stream — ■ 

A sluggish water, black as ink, 
The depth was so extreme : — 

My gentle boy, remember this 
Is nothing but a dream ! — • 



" And peace went with them, one and all, 
And each calm pillow spread ; 

But Guilt was my grim chamberlain 
That lighted me to bed ; 

And drew my midnight curtains round 
With fingers bloody red ! 

" All night I lay in agony, 

In anguish dark and deep ; 
My fever'd eyes I dared not close. 

But stared aghast at Sleep : 
For Sin had render'd unto her 

The keys of hell to keep ! 

" All night I lay in agony, 

From weary chime to chime ; 

With one besetting horrid hint. 
That racked me all the time, — 

A mighty yielding, like the first 
Fierce impulse unto crime ! 



82 



GLEANINGS FEOM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



" One stern tyrannic thought, that made 

All other thoughts its slave ; 
Stronger and stronger every pulse 

Did that temptation crave, — 
Still urging me to go and see 

The dead man in his grave ! 

" Heavily I rose up, as soon 

As hglit was in the sky. 
And sought the bleak accursed pool 

With a wild misgiving eye ; 
And I saw the dead in the river-bed. 

For the faithless stream was dry ! 

•' Merrily rose the lark, and shook 

The dewdrop from its wing ; 
But I never niark'd its morning flight, 

I never heard it sing : 
For I was stooping once again 

Under the horrid thing. 

" With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, 

I took him up and ran, — 
There was no time to dig a grave 

Before the day began : 
In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves 

I hid the murdered man ! 

" And all that day I read in school. 
But my thought was other-where ; 

As soon as the mid-day task was done, 
In secret I was there : 

And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, 
And still the corse was bare ! 



" Then down I cast me on my face, 

And first began to weep, 
For I knew my secret then was one 

That earth refused to keep ; 
Or land, or sea, though he should be 

Ten thousand fathoms deep ! 

" So wills the fierce Avenging Sprite, 

Till blood for blood atones ! 
Ay, thoiigh he's buried in a cave. 

And trodden down with stones, 
And years have rotted off his flesh — 

The world shall see his bones ! 

" Oh God, that horrid, horrid dream 

Besets me now awake ! 
Again — again, with a dizzy brain. 

The human life I take ; 
And my red right hand grows raging hot 

Like Cranmer's at the stake. 

" And still no peace for the restless clay 

Will wave or mould allow ; 
The horrid thing pursues my soul, — 

It stands before me now ! " — 
The fearful boy looked u.p, and saw 

Huge drops upon his brow ! 

That very night, while gentle sleep 

The urchin eyelids kiss'd. 
Two stern-faced men set out from LynUj 

Through the cold and heavy mist ; 
And Eugene Aram walked between. 

With gyves upon his wrist. 



BAEON TEENCK. 




m EEDERIC BARON TRENCK, born 
'^^•^^ at Konigsberg in 1726, was the son 
of a superior officer in the Prussian 
army, and cousin-german of the 
famous Trenck, colonel of the Pan- 
dours in the service of Maria Theresa. 
At the age of eighteen he became an officer 
in the body-guard of Frederic II., and he 
was high in the favour of that prince. But the 
intelligence, the bravery, and the brilliant exploits 
to which he owed that favour had also procured 
him many enemies who knew how to take advan- 
tage of the indiscretions of a high-spirited young 
man. Trenck was presumptuous enough to aspire 
to the regard of the Princess Amelia, sister of the 
king; and this was imdoubtedly the main cause 
of his disgrace, though not the only one. 

An imprudent correspondence with his cousin, 
the Austrian colonel, was made the pretext of 



his earliest imprisonment in the castle of Glatz. 
Trenck, who could not conceive that a man of 
his rank and distinction should remain long in 
duress, wrote a somewhat bold letter to the king, 
demanding to be tried by a military tribunal. 
Frederick did not respond, and Trenck, seeing- 
that his place in the royal body-guard had been 
given to another, after peace had been concluded,, 
began to meditate upon escape. 

His first attempt ended quickly in mortifying 
failure. He had won over many of the guards of 
the castle by a liberal use of money, with which 
he was abundantly supplied. Two of them agreed 
to aid him and accompany him in his flight, but 
the three most imprudently desired to carry off 
with them an officer who had been condemned to- 
ten years' imprisonment in the same fortress. 

When all their preparations had been made, 
this scoundrel, whom Trenck had loaded with. 



BARON TRENCK. 



83 



"favours, betrayed tliem, and received his pardon 
as the price of his perfidy. One of the officers 
was warned in time to save himself, and the other 
.got off with a year's confinement, by dint of 
Trenck's money. As for the baron himself, from 
this day forward .he was more narrowly guarded. 
But years afterwards the villain who had sold 
them, meeting Trenck at Warsaw, received the 
■chastisement he deserved, and, desiring satisfaction 
with weapons, was left dead on the spot. 

The king was greatly incensed at this attempted 
•escape, the more so as he had already promised, 
at the earnest entreaty of Trenck's mother, to 
release him in a year. But Trenck had, unfor- 
tunately, been kept in ignorance of this latter 
■circumstance. He was not long, however, before 
he made another desperate effort to recover his 
liberty — one which covered him at once with mud 
and ridicule. 

The baron was confined in a tower looking out 
Tipon the town. By making a saw of a pocket-knife 
he was enabled to cut through three bars of his 
window-grating. An ofiicer then procured him a 
file, with which he severed five more. Then, with 
a rope made of strips of leather cut from his 
portmanteau and of the coverlet of his bed, he 
slid do-v\Ti without accident to the ground. The 
night was dark and rainy, and all things favoured 
the fugitive. But an unexpected difficulty pre- 
sented itself in a sewer, which he was compelled 
to cross in order to reach the town, and there the 
luckless baron floundered, being neither able to 
advance nor to retire, and was at last fain to call 
upon the sentinel to extricate him. 

Eight days only had elapsed after this most 
absurd and unfortunate adventure, when Trenck, 
with unparalleled audacity, had nearly gained his 
liberty in a way wholly unpremeditated. The 
■commandant of the ca-stle made him a visit of 
inspection, and improved the opportunity of giving 
this desperate young fellow a lecture on his fre- 
■quent attempts at escape, by which he said his 
•crime had been seriously aggravated in the king's 
•estimation. 

The baron fired up at the word "crime," and 
•demanded to know for how long a term he had 
been consigned to the fortress. The commandant 
replied that an ofiicer who had been detected in a 
treasonable correspondence with the enemies of 
his country could never expect the pardon of the 
king. The hilt of the commandant's sword was 
within easy and tempting grasp ; there were only 
a sentinel and an officer of the guard in attendance ; 
it seemed a golden moment ; Trenck seized it, 
in seizing the sword, rushing rapidly from the 
room, hurling the sentinel and the officer down 
the stairs, and cutting his way out of the building. 

He leaped the first rampart and fell upon his 
feet in the fosse ; he leaped the second rampart, a 



yet more daring and perilous venture, and again 
fell upon his feet, without so much as losing hold 
of the major's sword. There was not time for the 
garrison to load a piece, and no one was disposed 
to pursue the baron along the steep way he had 
chosen. It was a considerable detour from the 
interior of the castle to the outer rampart, and 
Trenck would have had a good half -hour's start of 
his pursuers had fortune, so far propitious, con- 
tinued to favour him. A sentry with a fixed 
bayonet opposed him in a narrow passage ; the 
baron cut him down. 

Another sentry ran after him ; Trenck attempted 
to jump over a palisade, but caught his foot 
between two of the timbers beyond all hope of 
extrication, seeing that the unreasonable sentry 
held on to it with dogged persistence until aid 
arrived, and then the baron was carried back to 
the castle once more and put under stricter sur- 
veillance than ever. 

A lieutenant, whose name was Bach, a Dane, 
mounted guard every fourth day, and was the 
terror of the whole garrison ; for being a perfect 
master of arms, he was incessantly involved in 
quarrels, and generally left his marks behind him. 
He had served in two regiments, neither of which 
would associate Avith him for this reason, and lie 
had been sent to the garrison regiment at Glatz as 
a punishment. 

Bach, one day sitting beside Trenck, related 
how the evening before he had wounded a lieu- 
tenant, of the name of Schell, in the arm. Trench 
replied, laughing, " Had I my liberty, I believe 
you would find some trouble in wounding me, for 
I have some skUl in the sword." The blood 
instantly flew into Bach's face. They split off a kind 
of a pair of foils from an old door, which had 
served as a table, and at the first lunge Trenck hit 
him on the breast. 

Bach's rage at once became ungovernable, and 
he left the prison. To the great astonishment of 
Trenck, he returned, a moment later, with two 
soldiers' swords, which he had concealed undei 
his coat. " Now then, boaster, prove," said he, 
giving one of them to the baron, " what thou art 
able to do." Trenck endeavoured to pacify his 
opponent, by representing the danger ; but in- 
effectually. Bach attacked him with the utmost 
fury, and was speedily wounded in the arm. 

Throwing his sword down. Bach fell upon 
Trenck's neck, kissed him, and wept. At length, 
after some convulsive emotions of pleasure, he 
said, " Friend, thou art my master, and thou must, 
thou shalt, by my aid, obtain thy liberty, as certain 
as my name is Bach." 

Talking the matter over with him afterwards, 
he told the baron that it would be impossible for 
him to get away safely unless the officer of the 
guard went with him ; that for himself he was 



84 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 




Teenck escaping with Lieutenant Schell. 



ready to make any sacrifice for liim sliort of his 
honour, and that to desert, being on guard, would 
be dishonourable. But he promised him every 
assistance, and the next day he brought to him 
Lieutenant Schell, saying, " Here's your man." 
Schell vowed perfect devotion, and the two imme- 
diately began to concert measures for getting off. 

Their project was precipitated in consequence 
of Schell's having discovered that he had been 
betrayed to the commandant. A fellow-officer. 
Lieutenant Schroeder, gave him the intelligence 
in full time for him to have saved himself, and 
even offered to accompany him ; but Schell, faith- 
ful to Trenck, refused to abandon him. Unfiling 
to risk an arrest by delay, however, he went at 
once to Trenck's room, carrying him a sabre, and 
said to him : 

" My friend, we are betrayed ; follow me, and 
do not permit my enemies to take me alive." 
Trenck tried to speak, but he seized his hand, 
i-epeating, " Follow me, we have not a moment to 
lose." 

There was a sentinel close at hand, but Schell 
boldly led Trenck towards him, saying, "Remain 
here ; I am to take the prisoner to the officers' 
quarters." 

In this direction Schell quietly marched his 
companion, but soon after turned off in a contrary 
course, making for the passage below the 
arsenal, from whence he hoped to reach the 
outer works of the fortress, and climb over the 
palisades. 



The plan was well made, but frustrate:! by their 
encountering a couple of officers, to avoid whom 
they made for the parapet which at this point was 
not very high. Wifliout hesitation they leaped 
down, Trenck escaping with a slight scratch, but 
his less fortunate companion sprained his ankle. 

By making strenuous efforts they reached the 
open country, but in a sad plight. It was the 
depth of winter, with the snow-covered ground hard 
frozen, and a dense fog around. They could hear 
the alarm guns from the castle ; Schell's ankle 
gave him great pain, and they knew that their 
pursuers must be on their track. But Trenck 
was indomitable ; partly carrying, partly dragging, 
he got his friend to the river Neiss, and in spite 
of the gathering ice swam with him across in the 
parts where it was not fordable. Then perishing 
nearly from cold, weariness, and hunger, they 
struggled onward till morning, hesitating what 
they should next do. 

The only plan that offered itself was to apply at the 
nearest house for food and help. Trenck, whose 
hands Schell tied behind him, and who had 
smeared his face with blood, posed as a culprit 
whom Schell desired to take without delay to the 
nearest justice. He had killed Schell's horse, so 
the lieutenant's fiction ran, and caused him to 
sprain his ankle, notwithstanding which Schell- 
had given him some sabre cuts, disabling him, 
and had succeeded in pinioning him, and now 
what he wanted was a vehicle to convey them to 
town. This story Schell told with great gravity to 



JACK GOODWIN'S JOKE. 



85 



two peasants at the door of their house, when the 
elder of them, a man advanced in years, called 
the lieutenant by name, informing him that they 
were well known for deserters, as an officer, the 
evening previous, had been at the house of a 
farmer near by, and had given their names and 
a description of the clothes they wore, narrating, 
at the same time, all the circumstances of their 
flight. 

But the old peasant, who had known Schell 
from having seen him often at the village when 
he was there in garrison, and who besides had a 
son in the lieutenant's company, had no thought 
of informing upon them, and though he begged 
hard for his horses, he yet permitted the runaways 
to take two from the stable. 

Thus furnished they mounted their bare-backed 
steeds, and hatless and dishevelled, with their 
whole appearance betraying what they were, they 
tore through the country, passing village after 
village, whose inhabitants, fortunately for the 
fugitives, were keeping a festival, and so for the 
most part they escaped without notice. 

Their route took them straight for the frontier, 
which they had nearly reached when, to their 
dismay, they found themselves in the near neigh- 
bom'hood of a body of cavalry, and their capture 
seemed certain, but to Schell's great delight fortune 
favoured them, the officer in command proving to 



be an old friend, who warned the fugitives to take 
another road. Pursuing this, the rest of their 
adventures were trifling, and their courage and 
perseverance were rewarded by their finding the 
way across the frontier open to them, and at last 
Trenck was free. 

But, says a chronicler of his adventures, 
" the baron was far from being a happy man. 
Pursued by the vengeance of Frederick, and sorely 
beset by Prussian spies, who tried to kidnap him, 
he wandered miserably about for many months, 
and subsequently took service in the Austrian 
army. Finally, after many wonderful adventures, 
he was basely given up by the governor and 
authorities of the town of Dantzig to the Prussian 
king. This sad mischance completely demoralised 
Trenck. Though many opportunities were afforded 
him to get away from the escort that convoyed 
him to Prussia, he had not the spirit to do so. 
Again he was consigned to prison. This time 
they took him to Magdeburg and locked him up 
in the citadel. 

" His subsequent life in the fortress of Magdeburg 
was but a repetition of liis previous unremitting 
efforts at escape ; but he never again left the 
prison until he was released by order of the king- 
He lived many years after his liberation, and was 
guillotined at Paris in the Revolution, at the same 
time with Andre Chenier." 



JACK GOODWIN'S JOKE. 




I- ACK GOODWIN ought to have known 
better : he was old enough — close on 
five-and-twenty — when he did it, and 
he ought to have been wiser. What 
sum it cost him was known only to his 
%F publisher. It must have been something 
',•* considerable, for paper and printing are 
expensive luxuries in the colonies. " Posies 
culled from Fancy's Bower " was the preposterous 
title of his production. It was a small octavo 
volume of two hundred pages, bound in green 
cloth, and, I have reason to know, it was contem- 
plated by Jack with much inward satisfaction. 

Jack was clerk in a store in the thriving town- 
ship of Maplewood, in the Ovens district, about a 
hundred and eighty miles from Melbourne. Maple- 
wood supported two newspapers — the Ovens 
Banner and the Ovens Herald, to each of which 
he had sent a copy of his little book. From the 
latter paper he received a very flattering notice. 

" ' Posies culled from Fancy's Bower,' " wrote the 
editor of that periodical, " is a volume of poetry 
written by our talented townsman, Mr. John 



Goodwin, and deserves from us something more 
than a passing notice. In this utilitarian age. 
when the thirst for gain engrosses all the nobler 
sympathies of our nature, we are too apt to 
forget those higher and better aims which refine 
and elevate humanity above the level of the sordid, 
mercenary crowd." 

This notice was highly satisfactory to Jack. It 
confirmed him in his already high opinion of his 
poetic bantling ; and he looked eagerly for the 
next issue of the Banner, which he hoped would 
contain a notice of his book equally flattering. 
But in this he was disappointed. The two 
newspapers were fiercely antagonistic. Conse- 
quently, on the morning following the HerahVs 
notice of Jack's book, the Banner contained the 
following : — 

" We have been favoured with a volume of 
verses, entitled 'Posies culled from Fancy's Bower,' 
written by a well-known and highly respected 
young gentleman residing in our midst, whose 
name, from motives of delicacy, we refrain from 
mentioning. We regret that an otherwise estimable 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



and promising young man should have been so 
ill-advised as to publish this crude and immature 
production. We will not deny that the volume 
before us contains what may prove the germs of 
future excellence. But the voice that now claims 
our attention is to real poetry what the first 
wailing of a mewling infant is to the impassioned 
utterances of a Demosthenes or our own Fitz- 
Jenkins." 

The QuaHerlij which killed Keats, and the 
Edinbargh reviewer who provoked the ire of 
Byron, hardly inflicted greater torture upon their 
victims than did this article in the Banner on the 
sensitive spirit of our friend Jack Goodwin. Like 
Byron, his first thoughts were of vengeance. But 
how ? He might write a satire after the style of 
" English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," which he 
had no doubt the Herald would gladly print. 
But he had doubts as to it having any great effect 
on the not over-sensitive nature of the editor of 
the Banner. He had thoughts of interviewing 
him with a big stick, but then he reflected that 
the editor owned another big stick — a stick which 
might be described as a " knobby " big stick ; and 
that, moreover, he stood six feet two without his 
boots. So that idea was abandoned. In his rage 
.Jack caught up the offending journal, with the 
intention of consigning it to the flames, when a 
paragraph caught his attention. He read it over 
twice with breathless interest. A gleam of triumph 
irradiated his countenance. 

" Hurrah ! " he exclaimed. " My enemy is 
delivered into my hands." 

This was the paragraph which Jack read : — 

"Forthcoming Visit of the Duke op Edin- 
burgh. — In view of the expected visit of our 
much-beloved Prince to the Australian continent, 
the proprietors of the Ovens Banner hereby offer 
the sum of five pounds sterling to the author of 
the best ode welcoming his arrival. The ode to be 
the property of the proprietors, and to appear in 
the Banner as soon as the award is made public. 
Each poem must bear a motto, and be accompanied 
by a sealed envelope bearing the same motto, and 
containing inside the name and address of the 
writer. The competition will be open till the 15th 
instant." 

''That will allow me three days," said Jack. 
"Yes, I will do it." 

Jack competed for the prize offered by the 
Banner, and was successful. The Banner thus 
remarked upon the circumstance : — 

" We confess that it is with more than ordinary 
pleasure that we announce the name of the author 
of the successful poem on the visit of the Duke of 
Edinburgh, which appears in our columns to-day. 
We are thus pleased because it shows that the 



young author took in good part, and has profited 
by, the somewhat severe remarks which, in our 
journalistic capacity, we lately felt it our duty to 
make on one of his productions." 

Jack's delight when he read this notice was un- 
bounded. His friends could scarcely understand 
it. No doubt it was a pleasant thing to write a 
successful copy of verses, and to be paid five 
pounds for doing so ; but Jack's triumph seemed 
to be out of all proportion to the occasion. He 
had formerly been rather a modest sort of fellow, 
but now he went chuckling all over the town with 
a copy of the Banner in his hand, calling every- 
body's attention to the verses, and asking them if 
they did not think them first-rate. Most people 
thought the verses commonplace enough ; but 
Jack laughed, and declared that they were the 
finest verses that had ever been written. .Jack, as 
I said before, had hitherto been always extremely 
modest and diffident regarding his own merits, and 
people thought he was going mad. 

In the afternoon Jack went into the Hercdd 
office. His friend, the editor, was at home. 

" Have you read my verses in the Banner this 
morning '? " he asked. 

" Yes — sad nonsense, I'm sorry to say ; but I 
was glad to hear you got the money. " 

" Hang the money ! You say the verses are 
nonsense. Do you know they are beyond all 
comparison the finest verses I ever wrote ? " 

" I must beg leave to differ from you there." 

" Look here, old fellow — I don't believe you saw 
half the beauty of the verses. Allow me to read 
them to you." 

The editor rose with an alarmed look. 

"I have a most particular engagement," he 
began. 

But Jack pushed him back into his chair, and 
taking a copy of the Banner from his pocket, read 
as follows : — 

" The golden chambers of the East throw ope their 

portals wide ; 
Her outstretched hand Australia gives to him, 

Britamiia's pride. 
Eager the people crowd around, their loyalty to 

evince — 
Earnest and true, and full of love for their young 

Sailor Prince. 
Delighted crowds shall gather to the sound of fife 

and drum, 
In ecstasy rejoicing to know that he is come. 
The fairest of our maidens round his brows will 

garlands twine — 
Oh, happy she on whom the light of his fond glance 

shall shine. 
Right royally we'll welcome him — e'en the black 

vault of night 
On his arrival 'svill blaze forth with artificial light. 



JACK GOODWIN'S JOKE. 



87 



Prom north and east, from south and west, admir- 
ing crowds will swarm — 
The reception that we give him will not be cool, 

but warm. 
High in the air shall rockets fly, and big guns will 

be fired, 
Enabling him at once to see how much he is 

admired. 
On lovely plains the shepherd hut will wake with 

voice of song. 
Vivid and loud the squatter's lodge will the glad 

strains prolong. 
E'en diggers in their creeks wUl shout vrith lusty, 

wUd halloo, 
Nor mute shall be the welcome of the frugal 

cockatoo. 
Swagsmen will pause upon their way to wipe away 

a tear. 
By gladness gathered in their eye, to think that he 

is here. 
A welcome such as this to man, on fair Australia's 

shore. 
Nor prince nor peasant heard of, or ever saw 

before. 
Nor shall choice gifts be wanting, our foes shall 

never say. 
Ever, with empty hand, our Prince beloved we 

sent away. 
Right gladly of our gold we'll give, and he shall 

taste our wine. 
In sheoak he will revel — that drink almost divine. 
Speeches shall not be wanting to promote his 

happiness, 
And every corporation will present him an ad- 
dress. 
Now, muse, thy task is ended : for a while, at 

least, thy lute, 
Anticipating matters, shall slumber and be mute ; 
Soon, soon again to waken, when to meet him we 

all mu-ster, 
Slumber, then, lyre, till then — but then be ready 

with a buster." 

The editor of the Herald yawned. 
" Not up to your usual standard. Jack," he said. 
"And you see nothing in the lines to admire." 
" Can't say I do." 



"Why, don't you see they are written in the 
form of an acrostic 1 " 

"Eh? let me see," said the editor, taking the 
paper from Jack's hand. "'T H E, the. The 
editor — the editor of the Ovens Banner is an ass.' 
Why, you don't mean to say you've actually made 
the fellow write himself down an ass in his own 
paper 1 " 

"But I do so," said Jack, laughing. "Isn't it 
capital 'I Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 

"Capital? Why, it's one of the best things I ever 
heard of — ha ! ha ! ha ! " 

" Ha ! ha ! ha ! " laughed Jack. 

" Ha ! ha ! ha ! " laughed the etiitor. 

"Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!" they both laughed 
in chorus. 

" And does the Banner fellow know of this % " 

"Not yet," said Jack; "but I look to you to 
enlighten him in to-morrow's paper." 

The editor of the Herald folded Jack in his 
arms, and silently pressed his hand. His emotion 
was too deep for words. 

The following morning the Herald contained 
a copy of Jack's verses, with this note appended 
to it — 

" It is seldom indeed that we find anything in 
the columns of our contemporary worth the trouble 
of a re-perusal ; but the accompanying clever 
acrostic, in which the editor of the Banner so 
ingenuously admits himself to be an ass, is such 
a remarkable and unprecedented instance of 
candour, that we gladly give it the benefit of our 
circulation." 

Before the morning was over, the joke was all 
over the town, and caused great amusement. But 
it promised to be rather serious for Jack. A big 
man with a big stick — a knobby stick — was said to 
be anxiously inquiring for him. However, Jack 
kept out of the way ; and the editor of the Banner, 
being a good-natured fellow, soon forgot his 
annoyance ; and on hearing that Jack had sent the 
five pounds he had got for the poem to the 
hospital, he declared that Jack was a good fellow, 
and that the joke was not half a bad one, though 
it was against himself. 




GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



THE GRAVE OE MACLEOD OF DARE. 



[By William Black.] 



' ^S'^^^^^'^ y°^ know what Hamisli says ?" lie 
'■ '^' cried, — "that the night is quite fine ! 

And Hamish has heard our talking 
of seeing the cathedral at lona by 
moonlight ; and he says the moon 
will be up by ten. And what do you say to 
running over now? You know we cannot take 
you in the yacht, for there is no good anchorage at 
lona ; but we can take you in a very good and 
safe boat ; and it will be an adventure to go out in 
the night time." 

It was an adventure that neither Mr. White nor 
his daughter seemed too eager to undertake ; but 
the urgent vehemence of the young man — who had 
discovered that it was a fine and clear starlit night 
— soon overcame their doubts ; and there was a 
general hurry of preparation. The desolation of 
the day, he eagerly thought, would be forgotten 
in the romance of this night excursion. And 
surely she would be charmed by the beauty of the 
starlit sky, and the loneliness of the voyage, and 
their wandering over the ruins in the solemn 
moonlight 1 

Thick boots and waterproofs : these were his 
peremptory instructions. And then he led the 
way down the slippery path ; and he had a tight 
hold of her arm ; and if he talked to her in a low 
voice so that none should overhear — it is the way 
of lovers under the silence of the stars. They 
reached the pier, and the wet stone steps ; and 
here, despite the stars, it was so dark that perforce 
she had to permit him to lift her off the lowest 
step and place her in security in what seemed to 
her a great hole of some kind or other. She 'I'lew, 
however, that she was in a boat; for th:v • a' is a 
swaying hither and thither even in this f- . ■- ''ed 
corner. She saw other figures arrive — ^ . ..oi. be- 
tween her and the sky — and she heard her father's 
voice above. Then he, too, got into the boat ; the 
two men forward hauled up the huge lug sail ; and 
presently there was a rippling line of sparkling 
white stars on each side of the boat, burning for a 
second or two on the surface of the black water. 

" I don't know who is responsible for this mad- 
ness," Mr. White said — and the voice from inside 
the great waterproof coat sounded as if it meant 
to be jocular — " but really, Gerty, to be on the 
open Atlantic, in the middle of the night, in an 

open boat " 

" My dear sir," Macleod said, laughing, " you 
are as safe as if you were in bed. But I am 
responsible in the meantime, for I have the tiller. 
Oh, we shall be over in plenty of time to be clear 
of the banks." 



" What did you say f 

" Well," Macleod admitted, " there are some 
banks, you know, in the Sound of lona ; and on a 
dark night they are a little awkward when the tide 

is low — but I am not going to frighten you ' 

" I hope we shall have nothing much worse than 
this," said Mr. White, seriously. 

For indeed the sea, after the squally morning, 
was running pretty high ; and occasionally a cloud 
of spray came rattling over the bows, causing 
Macleod's guests to pull their waterproofs stilt 
more tightly round their necks. But what 
mattered the creaking of the cordage, and the 
plunging of the boat, and the rushing of the 
seas, so long as that beautiful clear sky shone 
overhead 1 

" Gertrude," said he in a low voice, " do you see 
the phosphorus-stars on the waves l I never saw 
them burn more brightly." 

" They are very beautiful," said she. " When 
do we get to land, Keith V 

" Oh, pretty soon," said he. " You are not 
anxious to get to land f 

" It is stormier than I expected." 
" Oh, this is nothing," said he. " I thought you 
would enjoy it." 

However, that summer night's sail was like to 
prove a tougher business than Keith Macleod had 
bargained for. They had been out scarcely twenty 
minutes when Miss White heard the man at the 
bow call out something, which she could not un- 
derstand, to Macleod. She saw him crane his 
neck forward, as if looking ahead ; and she her- 
self, looking in that direction, could perceive that 
from the horizon almost to the zenith the stars had 
become invisible. 

" It may be a little bit squally," he said to her, 
" but we shall soon be under the lee of lona. Per- 
haps you had better hold on to something." 

The advice was not ill-timed ; for almost as he 
spoke the first gust of the squall struck the boat, and 
there was a sound as if everything had been torn 
asunder and sent overboard. Then, as she righted 
just in time to meet the crash of the next wave, 
it seemed as though the world had grown perfectly 
black around them. The terrified woman seated 
there could no longer make out Macleod's figure ; 
it was impossible to speak amid this roar ; it 
almost seemed to her that she was alone with 
those howling mnds and heaving waves — at night 
on the open sea. The wind rose, and the sea too ; 
she heard the men call out and JIacleod answer ; 
and all the time the boat was creaking and groan- 
ing as she w'as flung high on the mighty waves, 



THE GRAVE OF MACLEOD OF DARE. 



89 



only to go staggering down into the awful trouglis 
behind, 

" Oh, Keith," she cried — and involuntarily she 
seized his arm — " are we in danger 1 " 

He could not hear what she said ; but he un- 
derstood the mute appeal. Quickly disengaging 
his arm — for it was the arm that was working the 
tiller — he called to her — ■ 

"We are all right. If you are afraid, get to the 
bottom of the boat !" 

But unhappily she did not hear this ; for as he 



" Where is papa ? " she cried. 

"I am here — I am all right, Gerty," was the 
answer — which came from the bottom of the 
boat, into which Mr. White had very prudently 
slipped. 

And then, as they got under the lee of the 
island, they found themselves in smoother water, 
though from time to time squalls came over that 
threatened to flatten the great lug-sail right on to 
the waves. 

" Come now, Gertrude," said Macleod, " we shall 




' They entered, all dhipp.ng and unrecognisable.* 



called to her a heavy sea struck the bows, sprung 
high in the air, and then fell over them in a deluge 
which nearly choked her. She understood, though, 
his throwing away her hand. It was the triumph 
of brute selfishness in the moment o" danger. 
They were drowning ; and he would not let her 
come near him ! And so she shrieked aloud for 
her father. 

Hearing those shrieks, Macleod called to one of 
the two men, who came stumbling along in the 
dark and got hold of the tiller. There was a 
slight lull in the storm ; and he caught her two 
hands and held her. 

" Gertrude, what is the matter 1 You are per- 
fectly safe ; and so is your father. For Heaven's 
sake keep still : if you get up, you will be knocked 
overboard ! " 



be ashore in a few minutes ; and you are nut 
frightened of a squall t " 

He had his arm round her ; and he held her 
tight ; but she did not answer. At last she saw 
a light — a small, glimmering orange thing that 
quivered apparently a hundred miles off. 

" See ! " he said. " We are close by. And it 
may clear up to-uiglit after all." 

Then he shouted to one of the men : 

" Sandy, we will not try the quay the night : we 
will go into the Martyr's Bay." 

"Ay, ay, sir." 

It was about a quarter of an hour afterwards 
that — almost benumbed with fear — she discovered 
that the boat was in smooth water ; and then 
there was a loud clatter of the sail coming down ; 
and she heard the two sailors calling to each other, 



90 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



and one of them seemed to have got overboard. 
There was absohitely nothing visible — not even a 
distant light ; but it was raining heavily. Then 
she knew that Macleod had moved away from her ; 
and she thought she heard a splash in the water ; 
and then a voice beside her said — 

" Gertrude, will you get up 1 You must let me 
carry you ashore." 

And she found herself in his arms, carried as 
lightly as though she had been a young lamb or a 
fawn from the hills ; but she knew from the slow 
way of his walking that he was going through the 
sea. Then he set her on the shore. 

" Take my hand," said he. 

" But where is papa 1 " 

" Just behind us," said he, " on Sand/s shoulders. 
Sandy will bring him along. Come, darling." 

" But where are we going ? " 

" There is a little inn near the Cathedral. And 
perhaps it will clear up to-night ; and we will have 
a fine sail back again to Dare." 

She shuddered. Not for ten thousand worlds 
would she pass through once more that seething 
pit of howling sounds and raging seas. 

He held her arm firmly ; and she stumbled along 
through the darkness, not knowing whether she 
was walking through seaweed, or pools of water, 
or wet corn. And at last they came to a door ; 
and the door was opened ; and there was a blaze 
of orange light ; and they entered — all dripping 
and unrecognisable — the warm, snug little place, 
to the astonishment of a handsome young lady who 
proved to be their hostess. 

" Dear me, Sir Keith," said she at length, " is it 
you indeed ! And yoa will not be going back to 
Dare to-night." 

In fact, when Mr. White arrived, it was soon 
made evident that going back to Dare that night 
was out of the question ; for somehow or other 
the old gentleman, despite his waterproofs, had 
managed to get soaked through ; and he was 
determined to go to bed at once, so as to have 
his clothes dried. And so the hospitalities of the 
little inn were requisitioned to the utmost ; and as 
there was no whisky to be had, they had to content 
themselves with hot tea ; and then they all retired 
to rest for the night, con^^nced that the moonlight 
visitation of the ruins had to be postponed. 

But next day — such are the rapid changes in the 
Highlands — broke blue and fair and shining ; and 
Miss Gertrude White was amazed to find that the 
awful Sound she had come along on the previous 
night was now brilliant in the most beaiitiful 
colours— for the tide was low, and the yellow 
sand-banks were shining through the blue waters 
of the sea. And would she not, seeing that the 
boat was lying down at the quay now, saU round 
the island, and see the splendid sight of the 
Atlantic breaking on the wild coast on the western 



side ? She hesitated ; and then, when it was 
suggested that she might walk across the island, 
.she eagerly accepted that alternative. They set 
out, on this hot, bright, beautiful day. 

But where he, eager to please her and show the 
beauties of the Highlands, saw lovely white sands, 
and smiling plains of verdure, and far views of the 
sunny sea, she only saw loneliness, and desolation, 
and a constant threatening of death from the 
fierce Atlantic. Could anything have been more 
beautiful — he said to himself — than this mag- 
nificent scene that lay all around her when they 
reached a far point on the western shore 1 — in face 
of them the wildly-rushing seas, coming thundering 
on to the rocks, and springing so high into the air 
that the snow-white foam showed black against 
the glare of the sky ; the nearer islands gleaming 
with a touch of brown on their sunward side ; the 
Dutchman's Cap, with its long brim and conical 
centre, and Lunga, also like a cap, but with a 
shorter brim and a high peak in front, becoming a 
trifle blue ; then Coll and Tiree lying like a pale 
stripe on the horizon ; while far away in the north 
the mountains of Hum and Skye were faint and 
spectral in the haze of the sunlight. Then the 
wild coast around them ; with its splendid masses 
of granite ; and its spare grass a brown-green in 
the warm sun ; and its bays of silver sand ; and its 
sea-birds whiter than the white clouds that came 
sailing over the blue. She recognised only the 
awfulness and the loneliness of that wild shore ; 
with its suggestions of crashing storms in the 
night-time and the cries of drowning men dashed 
helplessly on the cruel rocks. She was very silent 
all the way back ; though he told her stories of the 
fairies that used to inhabit those sandy and grassy 
plains. 

And could anything have been more magical 
than the beauty of that evening, after the storm 
had altogether died away 1 The red sunset sank 
behind the dark olive green of the hills ; a pale, 
clear twilight took its place, and shone over those 
mystic ruins that were the object of many a thought 
and many a pilgrimage in the far past and for- 
gotten years.; and then the stars began to glimmer 
as the distant shores and the sea grew dark ; and 
then, still later on, a wonderful radiance rose 
behind the low hills of Mull, and across the waters 
of the Sound came a belt of quivering light as the 
white moon sailed slowly up into the sky. Would 
they venture out now, into the silence? There 
was an odour of new-mown hay in the night air. 
Far away they could hear the murmuring of the 
waves around the rocks. They did uot speak a 
word as they walked along to those solemn ruins 
overlooking the sea, that were now a mass of 
mysterious shadow, except where the (3astern walls 
and the tower were touched by the silvr ry light 
that had just come into the heavens. 



THE GRAVE OF MACLEOD OF DARE. 



91 



And in silence they entered the still churchyard 
too ; and passed the graves. The buildings seemed 
to rise above them in a darkened majesty ; before 
them was a portal through which a glimpse of the 
moonlit sky was visible. Would they enter, 
then? 

" I am almost afraid," she said, in a low voice 
to her companion, and the hand on his arm 
trembled. 

But no sooner had she spoken than there was a 
sudden sound in the night that caused her heart 
to jump. All over them and around them, as it 
seemed, there was a wild uproar of wings ; and 
the clear sky above them was darkened by a 
cloud of objects wheeling this way and that, until 
at length they swept by overhead as if blown by a 
whirlwind, and crossed the clear moonlight in a 
dense body. She had quickly clung to him in her 
fear. 

" It is only the jackdaws — there are hundreds of 
them," he said to her ; but even his voice sounded 
strange in this hollow building. 

For they had now entered by the open door- 
way ; and all around them were the tall and 
crumbling pillars, and the arched vsdndows, and 
ruined walls, here and there catching the sharp 
light of the moonlight, here and there showing 
soft and grey with a reflected light, with spaces 
of black shadow which led to unknown recesses. 
And always overhead the clear sky with its pale 
stars ; and always, far away, the melancholy sound 
of the sea. 

" Do you know where you are standing now 1 " 
said he, almost sadly. " You are standing on the 
grave of Macleod of Macleod." 

She started aside with a slight exclamation. 

" I do not think they bury any one in here now," 
said he gently. And then he added, "Do you 
know that I have chosen the place for my grave 1 
It is away out at one of the Treshnish islands ; it 
is a bay looking to the west ; there is no one living 
on that island. It is only a fancy of mine — to rest 
for ever and ever with no sound around you but 
the sea and the winds — no step coming near you, 
and no voice but the waves." 

" Oh, Keith, you should not say such things : 
you frighten me," she said in a trembling voice. 

Another voice broke in upon them, harsh and 
pragmatical. 

"Do you know. Sir Keith," said Mr. White 
briskly, " that the moonlight is clear enough to let 
you make out this plan 'i But I can't get the 
building to correspond. This is the chancel, ] 
believe ; but where are the cloisters?" 

" I will show you," Macleod said ; and he led his 
companion through the silent and solemn place, 
her father following. In the darkness they passed 
tlirough an archway, and were about to .step out 
on to a piece of grass, when suddenly Miss White 



uttered a wild scream of terror and sank help ■ 
lessly to the ground. She had slipped from his 
arm, but in an instant he had caught her again 
and had raised her on his bended knee, and was 
calling to her with kindly words. 

" Gertrude, Gertrude," he said, " what is the 
matter 1 Won't you speak to me '] " 

And just as she was pulling herself together the 
innocent cause of this commotion was discovered. 
It was a black lamb that had come up in the most 
friendly manner, and had rubbed its head against 
her hand to attract her notice. 

" Gertrude, see — it is only a lamb ! It comes up 
to me every time I visit the ruins ; look ! " 

And, indeed, she was mightily ashamed of 
herself ; and pretended to be vastly interested 
in the ruins ; and was quite charmed with the 
view of the Sound in the moonlight, with the low 
hiUs beyond now grown quite black ; but all the 
same she was very silent as they walked back to 
the inn. And she was pale and thoughtful, too, 
while they were having their frugal supper of 
bread and mUk ; and very soon pleading fatigue, 
she retired. ■ But all the same, when Mr. White 
went up-stairs, some time after, he had been but 
a short while in his room when he heard a tapping 
at the door. He said, " Come in," and his daughter 
entered. He was surprised by the curious look of 
her face — a sort of piteous look, as of one ill at 
ease, and yet ashamed to speak. 

" What is it, child ? " said he. 

She regarded him for a second with that piteous 
look ; and then tears slowly gathered in her eyes. 

" Papa," said she, in a sort of half -hysterical 
way, " I want you to take me away from here. It 
frightens me. I don't know what it is. He was 
talking to me about graves " 

And here she burst out crying, and sobbed 
bitterly. 

" Oh, nonsense, child," her father said ; " your 
nervous system must have been shaken last night 
by that storm. I have seen a strange look about 
your face all day. It was certainly a mistake 
our coming here ; you are not fitted for this savage 
life." 

She grew more composed. She sat down for 
a few minutes ; and her father, taking out a small 
flask which had been filled from a bottle of 
brandy sent over during the day from Castle 
Dare, poured out a Uttle of the spirits, added some 
water, and made her drink the dose as a sleeping- 
draught. 

" Ah well, you know, pappy," said she, as she 
rose to leave — and she bestowed a very pretty 
smile on him — " it is all in the way of experience, 
isn't it 1 and an artist should experience every- 
thing. But there is just a little too much about 
graves and ghosts in these parts for me. And J 
suppose we shall go to-moriow to see some cave or 



93 



GLEANIZSTGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



other where two or three hundred men,, women, 
and children were murdered ! " 

" I hope in going back we shall not be as near 
our own grave as we were last night," her father 
observed. 

"And Keith Macleod laughs at it," she said, 
''and says it was unfortunate we got a wetting 1 " 



And so she went to bed ; and the sea-air 
had dealt well with her ; and she had no 
dreams at all of shipwrecks, or of black 
familiars in moonlit shrines. Why should her 
sleep be disturbed because that night she had 
put her foot on the grave of the chief of the 
Macleods ? 




NOTHING TO WEAE. 

[By William Allan Butlee,] 




^ISS FLORA M'FLIMSEY, of Ma- 
dison Square, 
IS$J* Has made three separate jour- 
neys to Paris ; 
And her father assures me, each 
time she was there. 
That she and her friend Mrs. Harris 
(Not the lady whose name is so famous in history. 
But plain Mrs. H., without romance or mystery), 
Spent six consecutive weeks, without stopping, 
In one continuous round of shopping ; 
Shopping alone, and shopping together. 
At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather; 
For all manner of things that a woman can put 
On the crown of her head or the sole of her foot. 
Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist. 
Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced, 
Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow, 
In front or behind — above or below : 
For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls. 
Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and balls ; 
Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in ; 
Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in ; 
Dresses in which to do nothing at all ; 
Dresses for winter, spring, summer, or fall ; 
All of them different in colour and pattern — 
Silk, muslin, and lace, crape, velvet, and satin ; 



Brocade and broadcloth, and other material, 
Quite as expensive, and much more ethereal ; 
In short, for all things that could ever be thought of, 
Or milliner, modiste, or tradesman be bought of. 

From ten-thousand-francs robes to twenty-sous 
frills ; 
In all quarters of Paris, and at every store, 
While M'Flimsey in vain stormed, scolded, and 
swore ; 

They footed the streets, and he footed the bills. 

The last trip, their goods shipped by the steamer 

Arago 
Formed, M'Flimsey declares, the bulk of her cargo ; 
Not to mention a quantity kept from the rest, 
Sufficient to fill the largest-sized chest. 
Which did not appear on the ship's manifest. 
But for which the ladies themselves manifested 
Such particular interest, that they invested 
Their own proper persons in layers and rows 
Of muslins, embroideries, worked underclothes. 
Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and such trifles as 

those. 
Then, wrapped in great shawls, like Circassian 

beauties. 
Gave GOOD-BYE. to the ship, and go-bye to the 

duties^ 



NOTHING TO WEAK 



93 



Her relations at home all marvell'd, no doubt, 

iliss Flora had grown so enormously stout 
For an actual belle and a possible bride ; 

But the miracle ceased when she turned inside 
out, 
And the truth came to light, and the dry goods 
beside. 

Which, in spite of collector, and custom-house 
sentry, 

Had enter'd the port without any entry. 

And yet, though scarce three months had pass'd 
since the day 

This merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broad- 
way, 



I had just been selected as he who should throw all 
The rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowal 
On myself, after twenty or thirty rejections, 
Of those fossil remains which she called " her 

affections," 
And that rather decayed but well-known work of 

art 
Which Miss Flora persisted in styling "her heart." 
So we were engaged. Our troth had been 
_ plighted. 
Not by moonbeam or starbeam, by fountain, or 
grove, 
But in a front parlour, most brilliantly lighted. 
Beneath the gas fixtures we whispered our love, 




' The end of the hose was portentously tipped up.* 



This same Miss M'Flimsey, of Madison Square, 
The last time we met, was in utter despair. 
Because she had nothing whatever to wear ! 
Nothing to wear ! Now, as this is a true 
ditty, 
I do not assert — this, you know, is between us — 
That she's in a state of absolute nudity. 

Like Powers' Greek Slave, or the Medici Venus ; 
But I do mean to say, I have heard her declare. 
When, at the same moment, she had on a dress 
Which cost five hundred dollars, and not a cent 

less. 
And jewellery worth ten times more, I should 
guess, 
That she had not a thing in the wide world to 

wear ! 
I should mention just here, that out of Miss 

Flora's 
Two hundred and fifty or si.xty adorers, 



Without any romance, or raptures, or sighs, 
Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eyes ! 
Or blushes, or transports, or such silly actions ; 
It was one of the quietest business transactions, 
With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, if any. 
And a very large diamond imported by Tiffany. 
On her virginal lips while I printed a kiss, 
She exclaim'd, as a sort of parenthesis, 
And by way of putting me quite at my ease, 
" You know I'm to polka as much as I please. 
And flirt when I like — now stop, don't you 

speak — 
And you must not come here more than twice iji 

the week. 
Or talk to me either at party or ball, 
But always be ready to come when I call ; 
So don't prose to me about duty and stuff; 
If we don't break this Q% there will be time 

enough 



94 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



For that sort of thing ; but the bargain must be 
That, as long as I choose, I am perfectly free ; 
For this is a sort of engagement, you see, 
Which is binding on you, but not binding on 
me." 

Well, having thus woo'd Miss M'Flimsey and gain'd 

her, 
With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that con- 
tained her, 
I had, as I thought, a contingent remainder 
At least in the property, and the best right 
To appear as its escort by day and by night : 
And it being the week of the Stuckups' grand 

ball— 
Their cards had been out a fortnight or so. 
And set all the Avenue on the tiptoe — 
I considered it only my duty to call, 

And see if Miss Flora intended to go. 
I found her — as ladies are apt to be found, 
When the time intervening between the first 

sound 
Of the bell and the visitor's entry is shorter 
Than usual — I found ; I won't say I caught her — 
Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly meaning 
To see if perhaps it didn't need cleaning. 
She turned as I entered — "Why, Harry, you 

sinner, 
I thought that you went to the Flashers' to 

dinner ! " 
"So I did," I replied, "but the dinner is swallowed, 
And digested, I trust, for 'tis now nine and 

more ; 
So being relieved from that duty, I followed 

Inclination, which led me, you see, to your door. 
And now will your ladyship so condescend 
As just to inform me if you intend 
Your duty and grace and presence to lend 
(All which, when I own, I hope no one wiU 

borrow) 
To the Stuckups', whose party, you know, is to- 
morrow 1 " 
The fair Flora looked up with a pitiful air. 
And answered quite promptly, " Why, Harry, 7non 

cher, 
I should like above all things to go with you 

there ; 
But really and truly — I've nothing to wear ! " 
" Nothing to wear ! Go just as you are ; 
Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be by 

far, 
I engage, the most bright and particular star 
On the Stuckup horizon." I stopp'd, for her 

eye, 
Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery, 
Open'd on me at once a most terrible battery 

Of scorn and amazement. She made no reply. 
But gave a slight turn to the end of her nose 
(That pure Grecian feature), as much as to say. 



" How absurd that any sane man should suppose 
That a lady would go to a ball in the clothes, 

No matter how fine, that she wears every day ! " 
So I ventured again — " Wear your crimson bro- 
cade " 
(Second turn up of nose) — " That's too dark by a 

shade." 
" Your blue silk " — " That's too heavy." " Your 

pink" — '' That's too light." 
" Wear tulle over satin " — " I can't endure white." 
" Your rose-coloured, then, the best of the 

batch" — 
" I haven't a thread of point-lace to match." 
" Your brown moir6 antique " — " Yes, and look 

like a Quaker." 
" The pearl coloured " — " I would, but that plaguy 

dressmaker 
Has had it a week." " Then that exquisite lilac, 
In which you would melt the heart of a Shylock" 
(Here the nose took again the same elevation)^ 
" I wouldn't wear that for the whole of creation." 
" Why not 1 It's my fancy, there's nothing could 
strike it 
As more comme ilfaut — " " Yes, but, dear me ! 
that lean 
Sophronia Stuckup has got one just like it, 
And I won't appear dressed like a chit of 
sixteen." 
" Then that splendid purple, that sweet Mazarine ; 
That superb point d'aiguOle, that imperial green, 
That zephyr-like tarlatan, that rich grenadine " — 
" Not one of all which is fit to be seen," 
Said the lady, becoming excited and flushed. 
" Then wear," I exclaimed, in a tone which quite 
crush'd 
Opposition, " that gorgeous toilette which you 
sported 
In Paris last spring, at the grand presentation. 
When you quite turn'd the head of the head of 
the nation ; 
And by all the grand court were so very much 
courted." 
The end of the nose was portentously tipped up 
And both the bright eyes shot forth indignation, 
As she burst upon me with the fierce exclama- 
tion, 
"I have worn it three times, at the least calcula- 
tion. 
And that and the most of my dresses are ripped 

up ! " 
Here I ripp'd out something, perhaps rather rash. 
Quite innocent though ; but to use an ex- 
pression 
More striking than classic, it " settled my hash," 
And proved very soon the last act of our 
session. 
"Fiddlesticks, is it, sir? I wonder the ceiling 
Doesn't fall down and crush you. Oh,, you men 
have no feeling ! 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 



95 



You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures ! 
Who set yourselves up as patterns and preachers. 
Your silly pretence — why, what "a mere guess it is ! 
Pray, what do you know of a woman's necessities ^ 
I have told you and shown you I have nothing to 

wear, 
And 'tis perfectly plain you not only don't care. 
But you do not believe me " (here the nose went 

still higher). 
" I suppose if you dared you would call me a liar. 
Our engagement is ended, sir — yes, on the spot ; 
You're a brute, and a monster, and I don't know 

what." 
I mildly suggested the words Hottentot, 
Pickpocket and cannibal, Tartar and thief. 
As gentle expletives which might give relief. 
But this only proved as spark to the powder, 
And the storm I had raised came faster and 

louder ; 
It blew and it rain'd, thunder'd, lighten'd, and 

hail'd 
Interjections, verbs, pronouns, tiU language quite 

faU'd 
To express the abusive ; and then its arrears 
Were brought up all at once by a torrent of tears ; 
And my last faint, despairing attempt at an obs- 
Ervation was lost in a tempest of sobs. 
WeU, I felt for the lady, and felt for my hat, too ; 
Improvised on the crown of the latter a tattoo. 
In lieu of expressing the feelings which lay 
Quite too deep for words, as Wordsworth would 

say. 
Then, without going through the form of a bow. 
Found myself in the entry — I hardly knew how — 
On door-step and side walk, past lamp-post and 

square, 
At home and up-stairs, in my own easy-chair ; 

Poked my feet into slippers, my fire into blaze, 
And said to myself, as I Ut my cigar, 
Supposing a man had the wealth of the Czar 

Of the Eussias to boot, for the rest of his days. 
On the whole, do you think he would have much 

to spare 
If he married a woman with nothing to wear 1 

Since that night, taking pains that it should not 

be bruited 
Abroad in society, I've instituted 
A course of inquiry, extensive and thorough. 
On this vital subject ; and find, to my horror. 
That the fair Flora's case is by no means sur- 
prising, 

But that there exists the greate.st distress 
In our female community, solely arising 

From this unsupplied destitution of dress, 
Whose unfortunate victims are filling the air 
With the ijitiful wail of " Nothing to wear ! " 
Researches in some of the " Upper Ten " districts 
Reveal the most painful and startling statistics, 



Of which let me mention only a few : 

In one single house, on the Fifth Avenue, 

Three young ladies were found, aU below twenty 

two. 
Who have been three whole weeks without any- 
thing new 
In the way of flounced silks ; and, thus left in the 

lurch, 
Are unable to go to ball, concert, or church. 
In another large mansion, nc j: the same place, 
Was found a deplorable, heart-rending case 
Of entire destitution of Brussels point lace. 
In a neighbouring block there was found, in three 

calls. 
Total want, long-continued, of camels'-hair shawls ; 
And a suffering family, whose case exhibits 
The most pressing need of real ermine tippets ; 
One deserving young lady almost unable 
To survive for the want of a new Russian sable ; 
Another confined to the house, when it's windier 
Than usual, because her shawl isn't India. 
Still another, whose tortures have been most 

terrific 
Ever since the sad loss of the steamer Pacific ; 
In which were engulfed, not friend or relation 
(For whose fate she perhaps might have found 

consolation, 
Or borne it, at least, with serene resignation). 
But the choicest assortment of French sleeves and 

collars 
Ever sent out from Paris, worth thousands of 

dollars ; 
And all, as to style, most rech?rche and rare. 
The want of which leaves her with nothing to wear, 
And renders her life so drear and dyspeptic, 
That she's quite a recluse, and almost a sceptic ; 
For she touching'y says that this sort of grief 
Cannot find in religion the slightest relief. 
And philosophy has not a maxim to spare 
For the victims of such overwhelming despair. 
But the saddest by far of aU these sad features 
Is the cruelty practised upon the poor creatures 
By husbands and fathers, real Bluebeards and 

Timons, 
Who resist the most touching appeals made for 

diamonds 
By their vpives and their daughters, and leave 

them for days 
Unsupplied with new jewellery, fans, or bouquets; 
Even laugh at their miseries whenever they hav^ a 

chance, 
And deride their demands as useless extravagance. 
One case of a bride was brought to my view, 
Too sad for belief, but, alas ! 'twas too true. 
Whose husbaiid refused, as savage as Charon, 
To permit lier to take more than ten trunks to 

Sharon. 
The consequence was, that when she got there. 
At the end of three weeks she had nothing to wear ; 



96 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



And when she proposed to finish the season 
At Newport, the monster refused out and out, 

For his infamous conduct alleging no reason 
Except that the waters were good for his gout. 

Such treatment as this was too shocking, of course, 

And proceedings are now going on for divorce. 

But why harrow the feelings by lifting the curtain 

From tliese scenes of woe ? Enough, it is certain, 

Has here been disclosed to stir up the pity 

Of every benevolent heart in the city, 

And spur up humanity into a canter 

To rush and relieve these sad cases instariter. 

Won't somebody, moved 
by this touching de- 
scription, 

Come forward to-morrow 
and head a subscrip- 
tion] 

Won't some kind philan- 
thropist, seeing that 
aid is 

So needed at once by 
these indigent ladies, 

Take charge of the 
matter ; or won't 
Peter Cooper 

The corner-stone lay of 
some splendid super- 
Structure, like that 
which to-day links 
his name 

In the Union unending 
of honour and fame ; 

And found a new charity just for the care 

Of these unhappy women with nothing to wear ; 

Which, in view of the cash which would daily be 
claim 'd, 

The Laying-out Hospital well might be named ; 

Won't Stewart, or some of our dry-goods im- 
porters. 

Take a contract for clothing our wives and our 
daughters ? 

Or, to furnish the cash to supply those distresses, 

And life's pathway strew with shawls, collars, and 
dresses. 

Ere the want of them makes it much rougher and 
thornier, 

Won't some one discover a new California'? 

Oh, ladies, dear ladies ! the next sunny day 
Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway, 
From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride, 
And the temples of Trade which tower on each 
side, 




In my own east-chair.' 



To the alleys and lanes, ivhere Misfortune and 

Guilt 
Their children have gather'd, their city have 

built ; 
Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey, 
Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair; 
Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broider'd 

skirt, 
Pick your delicate way through the dampness and 
dirt. 
Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety 
stair 

To the garret, where 
wretches, the young 
and the old, 
Half-starved and half- 
naked, lie crouch'd 
from the cold. 
See those skeleton 
limbs, those frost- 
bitten feet. 
All bleeding and bruised 
by the stones of the 
street ; . 
Hear the sharp cry of 
childhood, the deep 
groans that swell 
From the poor dying 
creature who writhes 
on the floor ; 
Hear the curses that 
somid like the echoes 
of hell. 

As you sicken and shudder, and fly from the 
door ! 
Then home to your wardrobes, and say — if you 

dare — 
Spoil'd children of Fashion, you've nothing to 
wear ! 



And oh, if perchance there should be a sphere 
Where all is made right which so puzzles us here, 
Where the glare and the glitter, and tinsel of 

Time 
Fade and die in the light of that region .sublime. 
Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of 

sense, 
LTnscreen'd by its trappings, and shows, and pre- 
tence. 
Must be clothed for the life and the service abovs 
With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love — 
Oh, daughters of Earth ! foolish virgins ! beware. 
Lest in that upper realm you have nothing to 
wear ! 



THE SOAP AND WATHER. 



97 



THE SOAP AND WATHEE* 

[From " Handy Andy." By Samuel Lover.] 




HEN Andy grew up to be what in 
country parlance is called " a brave 
lump of a boy," his mother thought 
he was old enough to do something 
for himself ; so she took him one 
day along with her to the squire's, 
and waited outside the door, loitering up 
and down the yard behind the house, 
a crowd of beggars and great lazy dogs, 



" Troth, an' your honour that's just it — if your 
honour would be plazed." 

" What can he do ? " 

" Anything, your honour." 

" That means nothing, I suppose," said the squire. 

"Oh, no, sir. Everythiug, I mane, that you 
would desire him to do." 

To every one of these assurances on his mother's 
part, Andy made a bow and a scrape. 




that were thrusting their heads into every iron 
pot that stood outside the kitchen door, until 
chance might give her '' a sight o' the squire afore 
he wint out, or afore he wint in ; " and after 
spending her entire day in this idle way, at last 
the squire made his appearance, and Judy pre- 
sented her son, who kept scraping his foot, and 
pulling his forelock, that stuck out like a piece of 
ragged thatch from his forehead, making his 
obeisance to the squire, while his mother was 
sounding his praises for being the "handiest 
eraythur alive — and so willin' — nothin' comes 
wrong to him." 

" I suppose the English of all this is, you want 
me to take him 1 " said the squire. 



" Can he take care of horses 1 " 

" The best of care, sir," said the mother ; while 
the miller, who was standing behind the squire 
waiting for orders, made a grimace at Andy, who 
was obliged to cram his face into his hat to hide 
the laugh, which he could hardly smother from 
being heard, as well as seen. 

" Let him come, then, and help in the stables, 
and we'll see what we can do." 

" May the Lord—" 

" That'll do — there, now go." 

" Oh, sure, but I'll pray for you, and — " 

" Will you go 1 " 

" And may the angels make your honour's bed 
this blessed night, I pray." 



♦ By permission of Messrs. George Eoutlerlge and Sons. 



98 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



" If you don't go, your son shan't come." 

Judy and her hopeful boy turned to the right- 
about in double-quick time, and hurried down 
the avenue. 

The next day Andy was duly installed into his 
office of stable-helper ; and, as he was a good 
rider, he was soon made whipper-in to the 
hounds, for there was a want of such a functionary 
in the establishment ; and Andy's boldness in 
this capacity soon made him a favourite with the 
squire, who was one of those rollicking boys on 
the pattern of the old school, who scorned the 
attentions of a regular valet, and let any one that 
chance threw in his way bring him his boots, or 
his hot water for shaving, or his coat, wlienever it 
VMS brushed. One morning, Andy, who was very 
often the attendant on such occasions, came to 
his room with hot water. He tapped at the door. 

" Who's that 1 " said the squire, who had just 
risen, and did not know but it might be one of 
the woman servants. 

"It's me, sir." 

" Oh — Andy ! Come in." 

" Here's the hot water, sir," said Andy, bearing 
an enormous tin can. 

" Why, what brings that enormous tin can here 1 
You may as well bring the stable bucket." 

'■ I beg your pardon, sir," said Andy, retreating. 
In two minutes more Andy came back, and, 
tapping at the door, put in his head cautiously, 
and said, '' The maids in the kitchen, your honour, 
says there's not so much hot water ready." 

" Did I not see it a moment since in your 
hand?" 

" Yes, sir ; but that's not nigh the full o' the 
stable bucket." 

" Go along, you stupid thief ! and get me some 
hot water directly." 

" Will the can do, sir ? " 

" Ay, anything, so you make haste." 

Off posted Andy, and back he came with the 
can. 

"Where'UIput it, sir?" 

■' Throw this out," said the squire, handing 
Andy a jug containing some cold water, meaning 
the jug to be replenished with the hot. 

Andy took the jug, and the window of the room 
being open, he very deliberately threw the jug out. 
The squire stared with wonder, and at last said — 

" What did you do that for ? " 

" Sure you towM me to throw it out, sir." 

" Go out of this, you thick-headed villain ! " said 
the squire, throwing his boots at Andy's head, along 
with some very neat curses. Andy retreated, and 
thought himself a very ill-used person. 

Though Andy's regular business was " whipper- 
in," yet he was liable to be called on for the 
performance of various other duties ; he some- 
times attended at table when the number of guests 



required that all the subs should be put in 
requisition, or rode on some distant errand for the 
"mistress," or drove out the nurse and children 
on the jaunting-car ; and many were the mistakes, 
delays, or accidents, arising from Handy Andy's 
interference in such matters ; — but as they were 
seldom serious, and generally laughable, they 
never cost him the loss of his place, or the squire's 
favour, who rather enjoyed Andy's blunders. 

The first time Andy was admitted into the 
mysteries of the dining-room, great was his 
wonder. The butler took him in to give him 
some previous instructions, and Andy was so lost 
in admiration at the sight of the assembled glass 
and plate, that he stood with his mouth and eyes 
wide open, and scarcely heard a word that was 
said to him. After the head man had been 
dinning his instructions into him for some time, 
he said he might go, until his attendance was 
reciuired. But Andy moved not ; he stood with 
his eyes fixed by a sort of fascination on some 
object that seemed to rivet them with the same 
unaccountable influence which the rattlesnake 
exercises over its victims. 

" What are you looking at 1 " said the butler. 

" Them things, sir," said Andy, pointing to some 
silver forks. 

" Is it the forks 1 " said the butler. 

" Oh, no, sir ! I know what forks is very well ; 
but I never seen them things afore." 

" What things do you mean 1 " 

" These things, sir," said Andy, taking up one of 
the silver forks, and turning it rormd and round 
in his hand in utter astonishment, while the 
butler grinned at his ignorance, and enjoyed his 
own superior knowledge. 

" Well ! " said Andy, after a long pause, " the 
devil be from me if ever I seen a silver spoon 
split thpt way before !" 

The butler gave a horse laugh, and made a 
standing joke of Andy's split spoon ; but time and 
experience made Andy less impressed with 
wonder at the show of plate and glass, and the 
split spoons became famUiar as " household 
words" to him ; yet still there were things in the 
duties of table attendance beyond Andy's com- 
prehension—he used to hand cold plates for fish, 
and hot plates for jelly, &c. But "one day," he 
was thrown off his centre in a remarkable degree 
by a bottle of soda-water. 

It was when that combustible was first intro- 
duced into Ireland as a dinner beverage that the 
occurrence took place, and Andy had the luck to 
be the person to whom a gentleman applied for 
some soda-water. 

" Sir? "said Andy. 

"Soda-water," said the g-uest, in that subdued 
tone in which people are apt to name their wants 
at a dinner-table. 



THE SLAVE-SHIP. 



39 



Andy went to the butler. " Mr. Morgan, there's 
a gintleman — " 

" Let me alone, will yon 1 " said Mr. Morgan. 

Andy manoeuvred round him a little longer, 
and again essayed to be heard. 

" Mr. Morgan ! " 

" Don't you see I'm as busy as I can be 1 Can't 
you do it yourself t " 

" I dunna what he wants." 

" Well, go and ax him," said Mr. Morgan. 

Andy went oflf as he was bidden, and came 
behind the thirsty gentleman's chair, with " I beg 
your pardon, sir." 

" Well 1 " said the gentleman. 

" I beg your pardon, sir ; but what's this you 
axed me for ? " 

"Soda-water." 

" What, sir 1 " 

" Soda-water ; but, perhaps you have not any." 

" Oh, there's plenty in the house, sir ! Would 
you like it hot, sir "? " 

The gentleman laughed, and, supposing the new 
fashion was not understood in the present 
company, said, " Never mind." 

But Andy was too anxious to please to be so 
satisfied, and again applied to Mr. Morgan. 

" Sir ! " said he. 

" Bad luck to you ! — can't you let me alone 1 " 

"There's a gentleman wants some soap and 
wather." 

" Some what 1 " 

" Soap and wather, sir." 

"Divil sweep you! — Soda-wather you mane. 
You'll get it under the side-board." 

" Is it in the can, sir V 

" The ciuse o' Crum'U on you ! in the bottles." 

" Is this it, sir'? " said Andy, producing a bottle 
of ale. 

" No, bad cess to you ! — the little bottles." 

" Is it the little bottles with no bottoms, sir 1 " 

" I wish yoic wor in the bottom o' the say ! " 
said Mr. Morgan, who was fuming and puffing, 
and rubbing down his face with a napkin, as he 



was hurrying to all quarters of the room, or, as 
Andy said, in praising his activity, that he was 
like bad luck — everywhere. 

" There they are," said Mr. Morgan at last. 

" Oh, them bottles that won't stand," said Andy ; 
" siu-e them's what I said, with no bottoms to 
them. How'll I open it 1 — it's tied down." 

" Cut the cord, you fool ! " 

Andy did as he was desired ; and he happened 
at the time to hold the bottle of soda-water on a 
level with the candles that shed light over the 
festive board from a large silver branch, and the 
moment he made the incision, bang went the 
bottle of soda, knocking out two of the lights with 
the projecting cork, which, performing its para- 
bola the length of the room, struck the squire 
himself in the eye at the foot of the table : while 
the hostess at the head had a cold bath down 
her back. Andy, when he saw the soda-water 
jumping out of the bottle, held it from him 
at arm's length ; every fizz it made, exclaiming, 
" Ow ! — ow ! " and, at last, when the bottle 
was empty, he roared out, " Oh, Lord ! — it's all 
gone ! " 

Great was the commotion ; — few could resist 
laughter except the ladies, who all looked at their 
gowns, not liking the mixture of satin and soda- 
water. The extinguished candles were re-lighted 
— the squire got his eye open again — and the next 
time he perceived the butler sufficiently near to 
speak to him, he said in a low and hurried tone of 
deep anger, while he knit his brow, " Send that 
fellow out of the room ! " but, mthin the same 
instant, resumed his former smile, that beamed on 
all around as if nothing had happened. 

Andy was expelled the salle d, manger in 
disgrace, and for days kept out of the master's 
and mistress' way : in the meantime the butler 
made a good story of the thing in the servants' 
hall ; and, when he held up Andy's ignorance to 
ridicule, by telling how he asked for " soap and 
water," Andy was given the name of " Suds," and 
was called by no other for mouths after. 



THE SLAVE-SHIP. 

[By J. G. Whittier.] 




gether beyond 



HE French ship Le Rodeiir, 
with a crew of twenty-two 
men, and with one hundred 
and sixty negTO slaves, sailed 
from Bonny, in Africa, April, 
1819. On approaching the line, 
a terrible malady broke out — 
an obstinate disease of the 
eyes — contagious, and alto- 
the resources of medicine. It 



was aggravated by the scarcity of water among 
the slaves (only half a wineglass per day being 
allowed to an individual), and by the extreme im- 
purity of the air in which they breathed. By the 
advice of the physician they were brought upon 
deck occasionally ; but some of the poor wretches, 
locking themselves in each other's arms, leaped 
overboard, in the hope, which so universally pre- 
vails among them, of being swiftly transpoited to 
their own homes in Africa. To check this, the 



100 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



captain ordered several, who were stopped in the 
attempt, to be shot, or hanged, before their com- 
panions. The disease extended to the crew, and 
one after another were smitten with it, until only- 
one remained unaffected. Yet even this dreadful 
condition did not preclude calculation ; to save 
the expense of supporting slaves rendered unsale- 
able, and to obtain grounds for a claim against the 
underwriters, thirty-six of the negroes, havmg he- 
come hlind, tvere thrown into the sea and di'owned ! 
In the midst of their dreadful fears, lest the 



solitary individual whose sight remained unaffected 
should also be seized with the malady, a sail was 
discovered — it was the Spanish slaver Leon ; the 
same disease had been there, and, horrible to tell, 
aU the crew had become blind ! Unable to assist 
each other, the vessels parted. The Spanish ship 
has never since been heard of ; the BMeur reached 
Guadaloupe on the 21st of June ; the only man 
who had escaped the disease, and had thus been 
enabled to steer the slaver into port, caught it 
three days after its arrival. 




"*-^^?. 






^^j 



J«H,C-^|^ 






.''i.Sfif?'" 



"A SOLITAUT EYE GAZED FROM THE BURDENED SLAVER'S DECK." (I>ran;n by IT^ H. Overend..) 



" All ready 1 " cried the captain ; 

" Ay, ay," the seamen said ; 
" Heave up the worthless lubbers, — 

The dying and the dead." 
Up from the slave-ship's prison 

Fierce, bearded heads were thrust ; 
" Now let the sharks look to it — 

Toss up the dead ones first ! " 

Corpse after corpse came up,^ 

Death had been busy there ; 
Where every blow is mercy, 

Why should the Spoiler spare 1 
Corpse after corpse they cast 

Sullenly from the ship. 
Yet bloody with the traces 

Of fetter- link and whip. 

Gloomily stood the captain 
With his arms upon his breast — 

With his cold brow sternly knotted, 
And his iron lip compressed ; 



" Are all the dead dogs over 1 " 
Growled through that matted lip ; 

" The blind ones are no better. 
Let's lighten the good ship." 

Hark ! from the ship's dark bosom, 

The very sounds of Hell ! 
The ringing clank of iron — 

The maniac's short, sharp yell ! 
The hoarse, low curse, throat-stifled, 

The starving infant's moan— 
The horror of a breaking heart 

Poured through a mother's groan. 

Up from that loathsome prison 

The stricken blind ones came ; 
Below had all been darkness — 

Above was still the same ; 
Yet the holy breath of Heaven 

Was sweetly breathing there, 
And the heated brow of fever 

Cooled in the soft sea air. 



THE SLAVE-SHIP. 



101 



'Overboard witli them, shipmates !" 


" Ho ! for the love of mercy. 


Cutlass and dirk were plied ; 


We're perishing and blind ! " 


Fettered and blind, one after one. 


A wail of utter agony 


Plunged down the vessel's side. 


Came back upon the wind. 


The sabre smote above, 




Beneath, the lean shark lay. 


" Help tcs ! for we are stricken 


Waiting, with wide and bloody jaw, 


With blindness, every one ; 


His quick and human prey. 


Ten days we've floated fearfully, 




Unnoting star or sun. 


God of the earth ! what cries 


Our ship's the slaver Leon, 


Eang upward unto Thee ! 


We've but a score on board ; 


Voices of agony and blood 


Our slaves are all gone over, 


From ship-deck and from sea. 


Help, for the love of God !" 


The last dull plunge was heard, 




The last wave caught its stain, 


On livid brows of agony 


And the unsated shark looked up 


The broad red lightning shone, 


For human hearts in vain. 


But the roar of wind and thunder 


* * * # * 


Stifled the answering groan ; 


Eed glowed the western waters ; 


Wailed from the broken waters 


The setting sun was there, 


A last despairing cry, 


Scattering alike on wave and cloud 


As, kindling in the stormy light. 


His fiery mesh of hair : 


The stranger ship went by. 


Amidst a group in blindness. 


***** 


A solitary eye 


In the sunny Guadaloupe 


Gazed from the burdened slaver's deck 


A dark-huU'd vessel lay. 


Into that burning sky. 


With a crew who noted never 




The nightfall or the day. 


" A storm," spoke out the gazer. 


The blossom of the orange 


" Is gathering, and at hand ; 


Was white by every stream. 


Curse on't ! I 'd give my other eye 


And tropic leaf, and flower, and bird 


For one firm rood of land." 


Were in the warm sunbeam. 


And then he laughed— but only 




His echoed laugh replied — 


And the sky was bright as ever, 


For the blinded and the suffering 


And the moonlight slept as well, 


Alone were at his side. 


On the palm-trees by the hiU-side, 




And the streamlet of the deU ; 


Night settled on the waters. 


And the glances of the Creole 


And on a stormy Heaven, 


Were still as archly deep. 


While swiftly on that lone ship's track 


And her smiles as full as ever 


The thunder-gust was driven. 


Of passion and of sleep. 


" A sail ! thank God, a sail ! " 




And as the hehnsman spoke, 


But vain were bird and blossom. 


Up through the stormy murmur 


The green earth and the sky. 


A shout of gladness broke. 


And the smile of human faces. 




To the ever-darkened eye ; 


Down came the stranger vessel. 


For, amidst a world of beauty. 


Unheeding, on her way. 


The slaver went abroad. 


So near, that on the slaver's deck 


With his ghastly visage written 


Fell off her driven spray. 


By the awful curse of God ! 




il^S^^T^W^^^^^^Z^W^^S^^S^^^W^^T^ZT^ZT^^ 



102 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



THE BACHELOR'S THERMOMETEE. 

[By James Smith.] 



JYptTATIS 30. Looked back tlirougli a vista 
jP^^ of ten years. Remembered that at twenty I 
looked upon a man of thirty as a middle- 
aged man ; wondered at my error, and protracted 
the middle age to forty. Said to myself, " Forty 
is the age of wisdom." Reflected generally upon 
past life ; wished myself twenty again; and ex- 
claimed, " If I were but twenty, what a scholar I 
would be by thirty ! but it's too late now." Looked 
in the glass ; still youthful, but getting rather fat. 
Young says, " A fool at forty is a fool indeed ; " 
forty, therefore must be the age of wisdom. 

31. Read in the Morning Chronicle that a 
wat:h maker in Paris, aged thirty-one, had shot 
himself for love. More fool the watchmaker ! 
Agreed that nobody fell in love after twenty. 
Quoted Sterne, " The expression fall in love, 
evidently shows love to be beneath a man." Went 
to Drury Lane : saw Miss Crotch in Rosetta, and 
fell in love with her. Received her ultimatum ; 
none but matrimonians need apply. Was three 
months making up my mind (a long time for 
making up such a little parcel), when Kitty Crotch 
eloped with Lord Buskin. Pretended to be very 
glad. Took three turns up and down library, and 
looked in glass. Getting rather fat and florid. 
Met a friend in Gray's Inn, who said I was evi- 
dently in 7'wde health. Thought the compliment 
ruder than the health. 

32. Passion for dancing rather on the decline. 
Voted sitting out play and farce one of the im- 
possibilities. Still in stage-box three nights per 
week. Sympathised with the public in vexation 
occasioned by non-attendance the other three : 
can't please everybody. Began to wonder at the 
pleasure of kicking one's heels on a chalked floor 
till four in the morning. Sold bay mare, who 
reared at three carriages, and shook me out of the 
saddle. Thought saddle-making rather worse than 
formerly. Hair growing thin. Bought a bottle of 
Tricosian fluid. Mem. — "a flattering unction." 

33. Hair thinner. Serious thoughts of a wig. 
Met Colonel Buckhorse, who wears one. Devil in 
a bush. Serious thoughts of letting it alone. Met 
a fellow Etonian in the Green Park who told me I 
wore well : wondered what he could mean. Gave 
up cricket-club, on account of the bad air about 
Paddington : could not run in it without being 
out of breath. 

34. Measured for a new coat. Tailor proposed 
fresh measure, hinting something about bulk. Old 
measure too short : parchment shrinks. Shortened 
my morning ride to Hampstead and Highgate, 
and wondered what people could see at Hendon. 
Determined not to marry : means expensive, end 



dubious. Counted eighteen bald heads in the pit 
at the Opera. So much the better ; the more the 
merrier. 

35. Tried on an old greatcoat, and found it an 
old little one ; cloth shrinks as weU as parchment. 
Red face in putting on shoes. Bought a shoe- 
horn. Remember cjuizzing my uncle George for 
using one : then young and foolish. Hunting- 
belts for gentlemen hung up in glover's windows. 
Longed to buy one, but two women in shop 
cheapening mittens. Three grey hairs in left 
eyebrow. 

36. Several grey hairs in whiskers : all owing- 
to carelessness in manufactory of shaving soap. 
Remember thinking my father an old man at 
thirty-si-x. Settled the point ! Men grew old 
sooner in former days. Laid the blame upon 
flapped waistcoats and tie-wigs. Skated on the 
Serpentine. Gout. Very foolish exercise, only 
fit for boys. Gave skates to Charles' eldest son. 

37. Fell in love again. Rather pleased to find 
myself not too old for the passion. Emma only 
nineteen. What then 1 Women require protectors ; 
day settled ; very frightened ; too late to get 
off. Luckily jilted. Emma married George 
Parker one day before me. Again determined 
never to marry. Turned off old tailor, and took 
to new one in Bond Street. Some of those fellows 
make a man look ten years younger. Not that that 
was the reason. 

38. Stuck rather more to dinner parties. Gave 
up country-dancing. Money-musk certainly more 
fatiguing than formerly. Fiddlers play it too 
quick. Quadrilles stealing hither over the Channel. 
Thought of adding to number of grave gentlemen 
who learn to dance. Dick Dapper dubbed me one 
of the ovCT'-growns. Very impertinent and utterly 
untrue. 

39. Quadrilles rising. Wondered sober mis- 
tresses of families would allow their carpets to be 
beat after that fashion. Dinner-parties increasing. 
Found myself gradually Tontineinr/ it towards top 
of table. Dreaded Ultima Thide of hostess's elbow. 
Good places for cutting turkeys ; bad for cutting- 
jokes. Wondered why I was always desired to walk 
up. Met two school-fellows at Pimlico; both fat 
and red-faced. Used to say at school that they 
were both of my age ; what lies boys tell ! 

40. Look back ten years. Remember at thirty 
thinking forty a middle-aged man. Must have 
meant fifty. Fifty certainly the age of wisdom. 
Determined to be wise in ten years. Wished to- 
learn music and Italian. Tried Logier. 'Twould 
not d(\ No defect of capacity, but those things, 
should be learned in childhood. 



BEIARY VILLAS. 



103 



41. New furnished chambers. Looked in new 
glass : one chin too much. Looked in other new 
glass ; chin still double. Art of glass-making on 
the decline. Sold my horse, and wondered people 
could find any pleasure in being bumped. What 
were legs made for 1 

42. Gout again : that disease certainly attacks 
young people more than formerly. Caught myself 
at a rubber of whist, and blushed. Tried my 
hand at original composition, and found a hanker- 
ing after epigram and satire. Wondered I could 
ever write love-sonnets. Imitated Horace's ode 
■" Ne sit ancilla." Did not mean anything serious, 
though Susan certainly civil and attentive. 

43. Bought a hunting-belt. Braced myself up 
till ready to burst. Intestines not to be trifled 
with : threw it aside. Young men now-a-days 
much too small in the waist. Read in Morning 
Fost an advertisement " Pills to prevent Cor- 
pulency : " bought a box. Never the slimmer, 
though much the sicker. 

44. Met Fanny Stapleton, now Mrs. Meadows, 
at Bullock's Museum. Twenty-five years ago 
wanted to marry her. What an escape ! Women 
certainly age much sooner than men. Charles' 
eldest boy began to think himself a man. Starched 
■cravat and a cane. What presumption ! At his 
age I was a child. 

45. A few wrinkles about the eyes, commonly 
called crow's feet. Must have caught cold. 



Began to talk politics, and shirk the drawing- 
room. Eulogised Garrick ; saw nothing in Kean. 
Talked of Lord North. Wondered at the licentious- 
ness of the modern press. Why can't people be 
civil, like Junius and John Wilkes, in the good 
old times 1 

46. Rather on the decline, but still handsome, 
and interesting. Growing dislike to the company 
of young men : all of them talk too much or too 
little. Began to call chambermaids at inns " My 
dear." Listened to a howl from Capt. Querulous 
about family expenses, price of bread and butcher's 
meat. Did not care a jot if bread was a shilling 
a roll, and butcher's meat fifty pounds a calf. 
Hugged myself in "single blessedness." 

47. Top of head quite bald. Pleaded Lord Grey 
in justification. Shook it, on reflecting that I was 
but three years removed from the "Age of Wis- 
dom." Teeth sound, but not so white as hereto- 
fore. Something the matter with the dentifrice. 
Began to be cautious in chronology. Bad thing 
to remember too far back. Had serious thoughts 
of not remembering Miss Farren. 

48. Quite settled not to remember Miss Farren. 
Told Laura WiUis that Palmer, who died when 
I was nineteen, certainly did not look forty- 
eight. 

49. Resolved never to marry for anything but 
money or rank. 

50. Age of vrisdom. Married my cook. 



BEIAEY VILLAS. 




.'M number one : Vidler is number 
two, Briaiy Villas, Pimliville. Nice 
houses, both of them, and I wish 
the builder was barred in one, and 
the house-agent in the other, for 
say seven, fourteen, or twenty-one 
years, as they have it in the lease. 
Lease. Yes, by the way, I'll sell 
tiie lease of number one to anybody. No, I will 
not ; I'll give it, and a ten-pound note, to any one 
to-morrow who will take the place ofi' my hands. 

It was Binny's doing — Binny is my wife 
Berenice — she took a fancy to the little squatty 
X)laces, because she said they were so low, and 
easy to escape from in case of fire, which is true, 
for you could get out of the top bedroom window 
on to the bay, and jump down without hurting 
anything but the shrubs. 

Vidler was not there then, or before I would 
have signed that lease I'd have emigrated any- 
where. But Vidler came and took next door at 
the end of a week, and we became neighbours. 
Now, I am not a violent man, and I never make 



use of bad language, but I must say something 
when I mention Vidler's name, if it's only " boil 
Vidler." It eases my mind, and my niincl needs 
easing, for of all the insults and annoyances that 
man has heaped upon poor little Binny and myself, 
nothing approaching the total could be imagined. 

We were just settling down when he arrived, 
and the very first night his servant came and 
knocked at our door with " master's compliments, 
and he had left his last house on account of the 
organs, and would we leave ofi' playing the 
py banner and whistle." 

"Silver threads amongst the gold," set for fiute 
and piano in E flat with variations ; and we were 
only just practising it so as to be ready when we 
had our housewarming the next week. 

That was a sample, for every day there was 
something the nasty little fat, round, bald-headed 
old bachelor or his pea-like sister who kept his 
house had to complain about. 

One might have borne that alone, but there 
were the troubles of the house as well, for there 
was always something wrong ; the bell-wire at the 



104 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



gate broke; the pipe in the scullery burst; the 
ball-cock in the cistern — there, I believe that ball- 
cock was a kind of demoniacal water-kelpie of a 
glutinous nature ! — would stick, and the waste- 
pipe was not big enough to carry off the water, or 
else was stopped up, and the consequence was 
that we had four times over a kind of fancy salmon 
ladder on the staircase with no salmon to go up to 
the gratification of Frank Buckland or Henry Lee, 
only your humble servant to put up his umbrella 
afterwards and cHmb up the steps and set the ball- 
cock free. 

The last time I did that I was in such a 
rage that I wrung the ball-cock off, and then 
had to send for the plumber, for the water came 
faster than ever, and I could not stop it with a i 



" Come in — no, stop a moment, I'U come," said 
Binny, as there was a knock at the bedroom door, 
and unclosing it, she found " our Emma " there, 
our parlour-and-house-maid. Cook always calls- 
her " our Emma," to distinguish her, I sup- 
pose, from the next-door servant, whose name is 
Jane. 

" Well, Emma ? " said my wife. 

" Oh, if you please, mum, wiU you come down^ 
please ? " 

" Is anything the matter, Emma 1 " 

" No, mum, there's nothink the matter, but I 
made up a good tire as you told me, in the dining- 
room, and it vnll keep on a-roaring so." 

" Why, you've set the chimney on fire ! " L 
shouted, banging down the brushes. 



^~^ . f (J^^ 







'POUHED IT DOWN THE SMOKING CHIMNEY," 



cork. But the plumber did not come till two hours 
after the water had been turned off at the main. 

That, too, is only a sample of the troubles we 
had at Briary Villas. There was something every 
day as regular as clockwork, till at last the 
troubles culminated one cold Februaiy evening, 
when I had returned from town ; and that trouble 
cost me fifty pounds, and made Vidler my sworn 
enemy for Ufe. 

I was just having a comfortable wash and 
enjoying the smeU of the dinner being dished up 
in the kitchen, while Binny was sitting by the 
toilet-table looking at the purchase I had made. 
All was rosy, when suddenly I sniffed. 

Then Binny sniffed. 

Then we both sniffed together. 

" What a smell of soot ! " I exclaimed. 

" Its that odious old Vidler's chimney smoking," 
said Binny. " Oh, Charley, do let's move ; they 
are such disagreeable people. The old woman 
actually made faces at m.e to-day as I sat by the 
window." 



" WeU, sir, that's what cook sez ; but I don't 
think it is." 

I ran down-stairs in my dressing-gown, to find 
that not only was the fire roaring away, but great 
pats of burning soot were tumbKng down the 
chimney, and I knew that if something were not 
quickly done we should be having the fire-engines, 
and five pounds to pay, if the house itself were 
not burned to the ground. 

But Vidler would be burned out as well — and I 
paused with a. kind of demoniacal joy pervading 
my breast. But, by nature magnanimous, I 
drove away the thought, seized the salt-cellars, 
and emptied them on the fire, and sent " our 
Emma " to the kitchen for the salt-box, which I 
emptied on the fire in turn. 

That seemed no good, so, calling to the maids 
to bring a couple of pails, I had them fiUed and 
carried upstairs, climbed the little ladder, opened 
the trap-door, and got on to the roof, reaching 
down afterwards and lifting up a pail of water. 

" It will make a horrible mess," I thought as I 



BEIARY VILLAS. 



105 



looked at the smoke pouring up from the long, 
narrow chimney-stack, which, like everything else 
belonging to Briary Villas, was squatty. 

"Yes, a horrible mess," I thought, "but 'our 
Emma' must clean it aU up. Better a dirty 
fender," I continued aloud, "than five pounds for 
a fire-engine." 

"Joy!" I ejaculated; "there are no sparks now, 
the salt is working : chlorine gas evolved from 
chloride of sodium by heat destroys combustion. 
Behold the finishing stroke." 

As I spoke I raised the pail of water, and poured 
it down the smoking chimney, darted back to 
avoid the steam and suffocating vapours, and, 
setting down the empty pail, took a full can from 
Emma, whose head appeared upon the scene. 



Going to the door then, I opened it cautiously, 
but only to be driven in and followed by a hideous 
little object in the shape of Vidler — round, fierce, 
blackened with soot, drenched with water, and 
foaming at the mouth. 

I was not afraid of him, but of the dirt, as he 
chased me into the dining-room, where, keeping 
him at bay, with the legs of a chair, I had to 
hsten, while Binny, cook and " our Emma " 
huddled together in a corner. 

" You atrocious scoundrel ! " he panted, from 
the midst of his strangely blackened face, as he 
tore with sooty hand at his wet black shirt-front 
and white kerseymere waistcoat. " You villain ! 
this is one of your cursed practical jokes ; but I'll 
have an action — I'll have an action." 




■ Keeping him at bay.' 



"No fire-engines to-night!" I said with a 
gleef id chuckle ; and as a rumbling gurgling noise 
came up the chimney, I poured down the second 
pailful and descended. 

" Shall you want any more water, sir 1 " said 
" our Emma," as I reached the foot of the steps. 

"No, Emma," I repUed, "I think not. How is 
the dining-room, Binny dear 1 " 

" It's left off roaring, dear," she replied ; and on 
going in, to my surprise I found the fire burning 
brightly, while the roaring noise had ceased, and 
all was beautiful and clean. 

" ^Vhy, my dear Binny " I exclaimed ; and 

then the roaring noise began again; but not in the 
chimney this time, but at the front door, which 
somebody seemed determined to batter do-^vn. 

" I'll go, Emma," I exclaimed, hastily : " it's 
the engine ; " and I determined to manfully 
drive back any fireman who tried to force an 
entrance. 



" Perhaps, sir, as plaintifi^, you will explain upon 
what grounds," I said, blandly. 

" Grounds, sir ! grounds ! you smooth-tongued, 
insulting blackguard ! Why, sir, ten minutes — 
five minutes ago, I was standing, as is my custom, 
reading my paper and warming my back, when an 
avalanche — a cataract — a dirty abominable Fall of 
Niagara, sir, came rushing down my chimney, sir, 
deluging me, my Turkey carpet, my hearthrug, 
spoiling my fire-irons and fender, and putting out 
my fire. As soon as I could recover from my 
astonishment, sir, I thrust my head up the 
chimney, sir, and roared out to you to cease, when, 
sir, a- second avalanche came down, and — and — 
hang it all, sir, just look at me ! " 

I looked, and lie certainly was a guy. 

" Now, sir," he roared savagely, " what does this 
mean 1 " 

"Mean, sir," I replied — "well, I'm afraid I 
poured the water down the wrong chimney.'' 



106 



GjuEAnings from popular authors. 



HOME AGAIN, 

[By WiLLiAH Sawyer.] 



jTuT OME again ! spared the perils of years, 
"fJij. Spared of rougli seas and roiiglier lands, 
"■ And I look in your glad eyes briglit with 
tears, 
Hear your voices and grasp your hands ! 

Not changed the least, not a single face 

Aged a day as it seems to me ! 
The same dear smiles, and the same dear place — 

All the same as it used to be ! 

Ah ! here is the garden ! Here the glint 
Of the limes in sunset green and gold, 

And the level lawn with the pattern in't 
Where the grass has been newly roU'd. 

And here come the rabbits lumping along. 
No ! that's never the same white doe 

With the pinky lops and the munching mouth ; 
Yet 'tis like her as snow to snow. 

And here's Nep in his old heraldic style. 
Erect, chain-tightening all he can, 

With Topsy wagging that inch of tail, — 
What, you know me again, old man 1 

The pond where the lilies float and sun 
Their cups ; the gold fish just the same, 

Too plump to stir in the cool, — yes, one 

Shoots, and gleams, and goes out like flame ! 



And still in the meadow, daisy-white, 
Its whistling flight the arrow wings, 

And the fallen target's central light 
Glitters — a planet with its rings ! 

And yonder's the tree with the giant's face. 
Sharp nose and chin against the blue, 

And where the elm -boughs interlace 
Our famous swing between the two. 

No change ! nay, it only seems last night 
I blurted back your fond good-byes, 

As I heard the rain drip from the eaves 
And felt its moisture in my eyes. 

Last night that we throng'd the porch about 
Each choking words we could not say. 

And poor little Jim's white face peep'd out, 
Dimly seen while I stole away. 

Poor little Jim ! in this hour of glee ■ 
His wee, white face our hearts recall. 

And I miss a hand and a voice, and see 
The little chair beside the wall. 

So all life's sunsliine is fleck'd and brief, 
So all delight is touched with pain. 

So tears of gladness and tears of grief 
Welcome the wanderer home again ! 



THE LEADEN WEIGHT. 




the corner 



F there had not 
been another 
church in Eng- 
land, we could 
not have been 
prouder of ours 
at Drainton. It 
r was very old, 

very ugly, very big, and very 
dilapidated. Damp ran riot 
"Within its mouldering walls, 
so that either the organ pipes 
■nould not speak, or else, 
A\hen once persuaded to 
utter sound, they would 
never leave off till the mnd- 
chest was empty. Mildew 
ajjpeared in great foul patches 
all over the plaster, sjjotted 
the parson's gown, speckled 
of prayer-book and Bible, and com- 



pletely spoiled the new purple cushions in the 
head linendraper's pew. But we were very proud 
of our church for all that ; and if, through its 
being badly lit, ventilated — though draughty —and 
cold as a cellar nine months of the year, half the 
congregation suffered from rheumatism, why, what 
then 1 Diseases are antagonistic, and the possession 
of one keeps oft' others. 

You see it was the biggest church in a circle of 
ten miles' radius ; and even if the great family 
vault of the Bigglesons did— what with marble 
cushions, reclining figures, slabs, pediment, and 
iron railings — half fill the chancel, why the more 
honour and glory to the Bigglesons, who were yet 
wide awake, and came, two strong, for about one 
month every year, to sit in the huge mildewed 
pew — large enough to have held twenty, but 
held sacred to vacuity for the other eleven 
months. 

If you feel disposed to say anything spiteful, 
you need not ; for that vault and that empty pew 



THE LEADEN WEIGHT. 



107 



were institutions our way, and there was always 
plenty of room in Drainton Church. And, besides, 
we were very proud of the Bigglesons, about 
whose wealth I could tell you a great deal, only I 
want to get on to something else. 

Some people — not Drainton folk, of course — 
used to say that if you kicked one man you kicked 
the whole town, which was a gross exaggeration ; 
for though many of them, even of the same name, 
wouldn't own it, the extent to which relationship 
ran was rather startling — for they liad gone on, in 
an exclusive fashion, intermarrying for hundreds 
of years, till the Hodgebys, the Muggsons, and tlie 
Smiths were all cousins of some degree or another. 
But, as I said before, you could not expect Thomas 
Hodgeby, the great draper and churchwarden, to 
own Tipsy Tom — our " Saxon," as he was called — 
for a cousin, any more than the Eev. Samuel 
Smith, the rector, could be supposed to know 
ex-officio Hephzibah Smith, the pew-opener, and 
treat her as a relative. 

There happened to be, once upon a time, a great 
deal of unpleasantry in connection with our 
church — something more than unpleasantry, for 
it was sacrilege. Things disappeared out of the 
place in a most unaccountable way ; and though 
people winked, and nodded, and shook their heads 
at one another, as much as to say, " I know," 
nothing in the shape of a prosecution followed. 
Prayer-books, church services, Bibles — so sure 
as they possessed a good binding, and happened to 
be left in their owners' pew — were certain to be 
gone before the next Sunday. In fact, a much- 
prized volume belonging to the writer was left by 
him one morning after service, but the omission 
was remembered on reaching home ; so, hurrying 
back he was just in time to reach the church as 
the doors were being locked by Tom Hodgeby, 
the " Saxon." 

" You — you've come after your big prayer-book," 
he exclaimed. " I — I saw it and brought it away ; 
for you — you know there's such big thieves about, 
sir, I can't even keep a spade or maddick for 
them." 

Shortly after, it was discovered by the town 
upholsterer, upon his receiving orders to re-cover 
the cushions in the Bigglesons' pew, that the 
horsehair stuffing had been entirely removed, and 
its place filled with hay. This prompted further 
examinations, and outcries of a similar nature 
were heard from other pews — Tom holding up his 
hands, and declaring it to be " the vsnist " scandal 
he ever heard of. 

A month after, several hassocks were missing, 
which were afterwards found in possession of the 
various shoemakers and cobblers of the place, 
making them excellent v^orking seats, purchased 
from the annexer at prices varying from a pint of 
beer to two pots, according to quality. Then not 



' a grave could be dug for want of tools : Tom going 
I to churchwarden and vicar, with tears in his eyes, 
to tell of his losses — spade after spade, mattock 
after mattock, disappearing in the most mysterious 
way from the bone-house ; when, as a matter of 
course, new ones had to be supplied. 

People winked and nodded, and shook their 
heads again, saying at divers times that it was a 
fine thing to have a relative the vicar's church- 
warden, even if he would not recognise you in 
public ; and that if the matter lay in some hands 
the thief would soon have been punished. 

And it really was strange that Tommy always 
had a spare spade or mattock that he could sell 
to a labouring friend, and that his old wife should 
have a horsehair mattress that was the envy of all 
^ her neighbours. People even went so far as to 
say that Tommy was a sad rogue ; but then he 
was a servant of the church, a fact which spread 
such a cloak of respectability around Tommy's 
' shoulders, that people who said he was a rogue 
always made the assertion in a whisper. Some 
even went so far as to say that the communion 
plate would go next. But that was not likely, as 
^ it was always kept at the churchwarden's house, 
and cleaned up once a month, with coarse, gritty 
whiting before it was brought to the church, to be 
always taken carefully back directly after use. 

The whispers and murmurs, though, at last 
began to grow louder ; for one Bob Wilkins, the 
ringer of the tenor in the peal, who was the only 
man who cared for the job of climbing up to the 
top of the tower — a hundred and twenty feet above 
the churchyard — to oil the weathercock — a cock,, 
indeed, which obstinately persisted in pointing the 
windy quarter with its arched plumaged tail — 
Bob Wilkins, who had been up one day, after 
complaints had been made about the crowing, or 
rather groaning, of the said cock, came down to 
say that some one had stripped the whole of the 
lead off the top of the tower, and that one great 
strip had also been taken off the roof. 

" Oh! this won't do," said one. 

" This must be put a stop to," said another. 

And the public of Drainton having now 
thoroughly taken the alarm, an extemporised 
meeting was held, with closed doors, at Bink the 
barber's, where it was unanimously declared that 
Tommy Hodgeby, our " Saxon," was the culprit, 
and that he had stolen the lead, melted it down, 
and drunk it — of course after a chemical process 
by which it became beer and gin. His position 
and relationship to the great churchwarden were 
not to act as screens ; and a deputation having 
been formed, it was arranged that they should 
next morning wait upon the vicar. 

Some were of opinion that they might go at 
once ; but " Do nothing rashly " was taken to be a 
most valuable maxim. So, after determining to 



108 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



meet at nine the next day, inspect the damage, 
and then go to the vicarage, the gentlemen who 
had formed the meeting separated. 

It was not more than half -past nine — or say, a 
quarter to ten — the next morning, when the depu- 
tation proceeded in a body to the church, after 
obtaining the warden's keys ; when, after a great 
deal of puffing, they ascended the corkscrew stair- 
case, gazed upon the demolished tower top, which 
was quite denuded, and then descended to the 
little door which opened upon the roof of the 
body of the church, where it was plain enough to 
.see that three goodly strips had been cut, rolled up, 
and taken away. 

Some debated, some measured the extent of 
the damage, and some calculated the value of the 
lead ; after which the party walked to the vicarage, 
the matter was talked over, and at last, in com- 
pany with the parish constable, a shoemaker, who 
rose from a very suspicious-looking hassock, the 
whole party proceeded to our " Saxon's " residence, 
to be answered by the information that Tommy 
was not at home. 

" That meeting of ours yesterday frightened 
him," said one of the deputation. "He's gone, 
gentlemen, and we shall never see him any more, 
depend upon it." 

" Gently, my dear sir, gently," said the vicar. 
" We must not condemn the man unheard ; and, 
indeed, I sincerely hope that yoii are mistaken." 

The former speaker screwed up his mouth, and 
shook his head ; and as there seemed to be nothing 
more to do, the matter was left in the hands of the 
constable. The party separated, and the matter 
remained as it was, in spite of the heavy rain 
which soaked through, and made another great 
patch upon the church ceiling. Dozens of people 
went up the corkscrew staircase to see the 
damage ; and then, probably from a sense of 
humour, some wag or another would hang back to 
sound one of the beUs, while his companions were 
passing through the chamber, to their deafening 
and to the rousing of the indignation of church- 
warden Hodgeby, who, at the seventh offence, 
sent and insisted upon the tower door being locked, 
and carried the great key in his coat pocket for 
the rest of the day. 

There were no more visits paid by the curious, 
for the warden was stern, and the other key was 
always carried by the absent Tommy ; and as 
he did not turn up either on Saturday, the lead 
lay less heavy on people's minds, save and ex- 
cepting that of the plumber, painter, and glazier, 
who set to and prepared an estimate for the 
repair of the damages, and heartily wished Tommy 
had taken off another strip or two while he was 
about it. 

Sunday came, and the bells were rung " no how," 
as people said ; for Tommy was not there to 



superintend them, and the jobbing gardener, who 
hoped to succeed to the vacancy, excused his first 
attempt at bell-ringing on the plea that he didn't 
understand music. They did not make such a 
very great muddle, only that they would keep 
ringing imtil the vicar had been fully five minutes 
in the desk, and had had to send a message twice 
for them to be stojjped. 

Silence, though, at last, and the first sentence 
was being read, when as the vicar came to 
" wickedness he hath committed," there was a 
deep groan, apparently proceeding from the 
chancel, followed in a few moments by a feeble 
cry as for help. 

Heads were turned ; one whispered to another to 
ask who was ill, and then the vicar commenced 
again ; but only to be interrupted by another faint 
cry, when people began to leave their pews and 
to cluster round the railings of the great vault in 
the chancel, the slab at the back of which was 
found to be open ; and now, unmistakably, a groan 
rose from below. 

" What does this mean ■? " exclaimed the church- 
warden, in a loud whisper. " Mrs. Smith, do you 
know anything about it? " 

" No, sir, please. I only got into the church 
this morning, for you had the key with you when 
you went out yes'day, sir ; and Tommy, sir, he 
carry the other key, so that I couldn't dust." 

The mystery was not impenetrable ; for, after 
a little hesitation, a couple of the tradesmen 
climbed the rails, through not perceiving that the 
gate would open, and, a light being procured from 
the vestry. Tommy was found lying at the bottom 
of the vault steps, with his thigh-bone broken, and 
a heavy roU of lead lying right across him — two 
more rough rolls being hard by, in one of the 
niches left vacant for the coffin of a Biggleson to 
come. It was plain enough that this had been 
turned by Tommy into a storehouse for his 
plunder, and in heaving down a heavy roll he had 
slipped, to lie there in helpless agony until found 
as described. 

The church roof did not take long repairing, but 
it was otherwise with poor old Tommy's leg, which 
never supported him properly again during the 
five years after that he limped about the town — 
Tipsy Tommy to the day of his death, though he 
rarely now, for reasons allied to the pocket, ex- 
ceeded the bounds of propriety. Vicar, church- 
warden, all, were very lenient with, him, on 
account of his punishment partly, and because 
we were used to do things in a very easy-going, 
ponderous way in Drainton. Tommy was even 
allowed to remain " Saxon," performing his work 
by deputy, and sharing the proceeds ; but at last 
when the big tenor, which Tommy had so often 
tolled for others, tolled for him in his turn, the 
gardener's hand was at the rope. 



BROKEN HEARTS. 



109 



BROKEN HEARTS, 

[From "EoDin Gray." By Chakles Gibbon.) 




■HE guidman of Cairnieford was up 
to early on tlie dark December morning 



which succeeded the night of James 
Falcon's return. He was bound for 
a distant market, where he proposed 
to buy a lot of sheep, and expected to get a bar- 
-eain. The "uid ' i I' ' i 1 1 . ' 1 ■ 1 fast, fastened 



since she had been married ; and she looked now a 
sonsy, good-tempered, and happy wife. 

She was about to return to the house when she 
heard some of the hens cackling proudly in the 
little thicket of firs and beeches at the back of the 
steading ; and like a thrifty farmer's wife she 
started immediately in search of the eggs, which 




He snatched the hands between his own, and kissed them frenziedlt" (p. 111). 



liis plaid across his shoulders, and gave him 
iindly counsel to be careful of the road coming 
home, if it happened to be dark before he 
started. 

Robin promised obedience, though he declared 
at the same time he had ridden the road " hunners 
o' times in a' kinds o' weathers and never met in 
wi' onything waur nor himsel'." 

Jeanie watched him ride away in the hazy 
.morning Hght, and disappear at the end of the by- 
road. Her cheeks had recovered some of their 
former bloom, and her form much of its plumpness 



were prized all the more because of their scarcity 
at this season. 

She entered the thicket and began her search 
at a pile of fir branches which had been hewn 
down for winter firewood, and the numerous 
recesses in which presented favourable-looking 
hiding-places for wily hens to deposit their 
eggs. 

Jeanie heard the crisp earth and the dead frosted 
bits of branches which were thickly strewn about 
crackling under the footsteps of somebody ap- 
proaching. As she passed round the high pile of 



110 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



firewood, bending low to examine the nooks, she 
noticed a man coming towards her. She thought 
from the cursory glimpse she had obtained that he 
was one of the men belonging to the place, and 
continued her inspection unheeding. 

She passed round the pile of wood slowly to the 
side from which she had observed the man, and 
there he stood before her. 

Pale, haggard, with touzled hair, ruffled clothes, 
and a general appearance of wild disorder, the man 
stood watching her. 

She gazed at him a moment, and then she flung 
up her hands with a shriek that echoed throughout 
the thicket and sank moaning to the ground. 

He lifted her up. She was not unconscious, and 
she shuddered at his touch. He seemed sensible 
of her repulsion, and he placed her on a heap of 
the fir branches, drawing back a pace to look at 
her. She covered her eyes with her hands, as if to 
hide him from her sight. 

" Jeanie, I hae come back," he said presently in 
a hard cold tone. 

She made no answer, but she rocked her body 
to and fro, sobbing wildly. 

He spoke again slowly. 

"I hae come back, Jeanie, to find that ye 
shudder at my touch — that ye canna bear to look 
me in the face. And yet it was you that no so 
very lang syne clasped your arms around my neck, 
and told me that I might leave you without fear of 
change, for that you would bide my coming faith- 
fully. Hae ye kept your word 1 " 

He bent close to her, hissing the question in her 
ear. 

She seemed to writhe under his reproach, and 
still with her hands on her eyes she swayed to and 
fro, moaning. 

" They tauld me ye were drooned," she cried in 
anguish. " They tauld me ye were drooned, and 
oh my heart was sair to think it. But ye made 
nae sign that ye were living, and a' body spoke as 
though there was nee doot — as though there could 
be nane. There wasna ane to whisper a breath 
o' hope, and what could I do — what could I do but 
believe when the proof was so strong 1 " 

"Ye could hae waited a wee for confirmation 
o' the news. Oh, woman, I would hae waited a 
hundred years before I would hae cast you so 
utterly from my breast as to take another in my 
arms." 

"And I would hae waited for ever, had I been 
my lane. But they pressed me sair on a' hands. 
I was wae, wae, and heart-broken ; I didna care 
what cam' o' me ; but I tliocht it was a sin to turn 
awa' frae the wark that was set fornenst me ; and 
I thocht that you, looking at me frae the ither 
world, would ken what feelings moved me, and 
would say I had done weel. That was why I 
married, though my heart was wi' you." 



The violence of her distress, the sad sincerity of 
her voice, exerted a powerful influence upon him. 
He seemed to waken suddenly from a fever, in 
which all things had been distorted in his mind, 
to the conscioiisness that she had been true to him 
in heart — that she had loved him — that she still 
loved him. 

He dropped down beside her, and threw liis 
arms round her. 

" Jeanie, Jeanie ! " he cried, passionately, " ye are 
mine yet, ye shall be mine in spite o' a' the 
marriages on earth. What power — what richt 
has a minister's prayer to part our lives — to fill 
the years that are before us wi' lingering misery ? 
It shall hae none. Ye are mine, Jeanie, my ain, 
and nobody else has a richt to claim you. Rise up 
then, and come awa' from this place, and in another 
country we'll find a home and happiness." 

With a stifled cry of horror she wrenched her- 
self from his arms, and sprang to her feet. Her 
hands were withdrawn from her eyes now, and she 
regarded him with wild alarm, whilst her cheeks- 
which a moment before had been pallid and cold, 
became crimson. 

" Awa', man, awa' ! " she exclaimed with look and 
voice of horror ; " that's no Jeames Falcon wha 
has risen from the dead — for he would hae pitied 
me and tried to strengthen me for the cruel duty 
I maim do. It's the evil ane himsel' in my puir 
lad's body that's come to tempt me to my shame." 

He bowed his head before her indignation, and 
for the moment could not meet her gaze. 

" Lord help me. Lord help me," he groaned ; " I 
believe I'm crazed. Ye are richt, it was a mad 
thought — a villainous thought. I'll try to ,put it 
away from me. I shall put it away ; only give me 
a little while to master myself. Last nicht I came 
back, and last nicht I learned you were married. 
My head's been in a creel ever since, and I 
scarcely ken what I do, or say, or think." 

" Oh, why did you no come liame sooner — why 
did ye send nae word that ye were livin' 1 " 

" I couldna win hame, but I sent a letter, and 
that ye never got, I suppose." 

"Never, or I wouldna hae been here the day." 

He pressed his head tightly between his hands, 
as if by that means to subdue its violent throb- 
bing, and so obtain a calmer view of the position. 

"Ay, ay, it's been a' bad luck that has come 
between us and parted us for ever," he went on, 
hoarsely and hopelessly ; " but I'm no the villain 
you might think me from what I hae said. I 
didna come here thinking o' that. I came just to 
speak wi' you once again — to look at ye — and 
gang awa'." 

Her indignation and her fear of him had quite 
disappeared now. Above the storm of different 
emotions which was raging in her breast, pity for 
him rose strongest of all. She approached him, 



BROKEN HEARTS. 



Ill 



him slowly, and placed her hands on his head 
soothingly. He snatched the hands between his 
own, and kissed them frenziedly. 

" Dinna do that," she sobbed, trembling as with 
intense cold. " Ah, dinna do that, for it frichtens 
me, and minds me o' what you were saying enoo. 
I canna thole to think o' that, because it would 
make the sorrow I hae to bear a' the sairer if I 
had to think o' ye as ane that would do a wrang 
^ct." 

"iSTo man shall ever say I wranged him," said 
Falcon, proudly, and releasing her hands. 

" I believe that. I'll never doubt it again. Ye're 
speaking like yoursel' noo, and it comforts me to 
hear ye. But, Jeamie, we may do wrang in thocht 
to oursel's and others, and there's only ae way 
that we can ever hope to win peace o' mind by." 

" And that way 1 " 

" Is to part noo, and never — never meet again in 
this world." 

Her hands were clasped. She gazed appealingly 
at him, but he did not raise his head or speak for 
a long time. When he did look up, his face was 
white and his lips were quivering. 

" Ay, that's a' we can do now. It's cowardly to 
sob and greet like a ween when the road lies before 
me, dreary though it be." 

"Ye'll forget a' this, and I'll pray day and nicht 
that Heaven will send ye happy days." 

"I'll no forget, but maybe I may obtain dis- 
traction in hard work and new scenes. Folk say 
■that time cures a' Uls, and I could maist believe 
that, seeing that you looked so content before you 
saw me " (bitterly). 

" Jeamie, let me tell ye a' that's passed since ye 
^aed awa," she said, quietly, although smarting 
Tinder the sting of his reproach ; " and when ye 
hae heard ye'll be better able to judge how far I 
am to blame for what pain ye are suffering." 

She told him everything simply as it occurred, 
and he listened in moody silence. But when she 
had finished he rose to his feet. 

" Thank you, Jeanie," he said, in a calmer tone 
than he had yet spoken; "what you hae said 
proves to me that nae blame can rest on you. I 
would hae thought that anyway if I had only had 
time to think the matter fairly out. But there's 
one to whose villain's work you and I both owe 
what iU has happened us, and I'll bring him to the 
gallows for't." 

" Wha do ye mean ? " 

" Ivan Carrach, who was skipper o' the Colin." 

And he briefly explained to her how the brig 
had been burned, how he had escaped, and what 
had been the cause of his long absence. 

" I'll no -trouble yon again, Jeanie," he said in 
conchision ; " this is the last time I'll ever look on 
your dear face. Dinna shrink frae me or fear me 
because I call it dear. My anger and my frenzy 



are by now, and I'm calm. But your face will aye 
be dear to me although I may never look on it 
again. I'll never come back here : as soon as I 
hae got hand o' Carrach, I'll leave the country, and 
ye can think o' me as though I had been dead and 
had never come here to disturb the peace o' your 
hame wi' memories o' days that were very pleasant 
to us." 

His voice quivered as he spoke, and burning 
tears started to his eyes. She allowed him to clasp 
her hands now without hesitation, and her haK- 
stiiled sobs declared how violently her heart 
was agitated since the moment of parting had 
arrived. 

It was a sad parting, for it was lightened by no 
gleam of hope : it was like the parting which death 
makes. They had spoken much, but they had 
thought and felt far more than their words indi- 
cated during the little time they had been together. 
The bitter experience of a life was concentrated 
in that brief space, and the issue was a noble one. 
The suppressed love she had borne the man had 
been suddenly roused into new existence, and had 
fought hard with her sense of wifely duty and 
gratitude to the absent husband. The contest had 
closed in the stern recognition of the true path 
before her ; and whatever agony it might cost her 
she was ready to tear from her breast the love 
that had once been her happiness, but was now a 
sin. 

He had passed through the frenzy of his shat- 
tered hopes, the storm of angry passions, and had 
reached the light wherein he saw how much he 
had wronged her by his thoughts of the past night, 
and how much he owed her now. It seemed to 
him as if he heard the voice of his dead love 
loudly bidding him depart from her and leave her 
to what peace she might obtain from the know- 
ledge that he was never to cross her path any 
more. 

Yet they lingered with a fatal fascination over 
the love they were burying in this separation. 
Their hearts might ache and yearn ; but they 
were never again to find voice for the pain or 
hope, never again to reach the light of lovers' 
sympathy. 

" It maun be, it maun be," she cried at last ; 
" a' that I am suffering the noo, a' the weary pain 
that's tugging at my heart in the thocht o' parting 
wi' ye but tells me the stronger that we maun 
never meet on this earth mair. Oh I lo'ed ye, 
Jeamie, very dearly. I lo'e ye yet — the Lord 
aboon forgive me — but I am Robin Gray's wife, 
and I maun be faithful to him wha's been guid 
and true to me. Help me, help me, Jeamie, and 
gang awa'." 

" God keep ye, Jeanie," he gasped, with un- 
utterable misery and compassion choking his 
voice. " I see noo that I haena the warst to bear. 



112 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



I wish, in my soul that I had never come hams 
again, or that we had never loved as we hae done. 
God keep ye, and bless ye, and gie ye strength, for 
we hae little in oursel's. But ye shall never be 
troubled wi' the sicht o' me again, and if I could I 
would bury my very name in the bottomless pit 
that ye might never mair be startled even by the 
sound o't. A' that man can do to help ye to be a 
true wife I'll do for the sake o' the love I bear ye. 
I canna say ony mair." 

With an uncontrollable impulse he folded his 
arms round her and kissed her passionately, whilst 
scalding tears were on their faces. 

"Gae'wa, gae'wa," she cried, wildly, tearing 



herseK from his arms ; " and Heaven guide ye tO' 
happiness, if there be ony in this warld." 

She turned from him, blind with anguish, and 
tottered away toward the house. 

He stood dumbly gazing after her ; and as she 
disappeared round the corner of a shed, without 
having dared to look back once, his whole heart 
seemed to burst in one great sob. 

" God bless ye, Jeanie," he faltered, and the 
words yearningly followed her. 

He gazed vacantly for a long time at the place 
where he had caught the last glimpse of her re- 
treating form, and then, with a dull, hopeless face, 
he turned slowly away. 



NIAGARA IN WINTEE. 

[By George Augustus Sala.] 




was just the grey of the winter's day 
when our French-Canadian valet entered 
my state-room. "No boots to-day," 1 
said, " I will wear moccasins." "It vas 
not de boots," he made answer ; " you 
are dere." "Where?" I asked, sleepily and 
querulously. "At Niagara, sare." I sprang from 
my cot, and made a toilette so svrift that the 
circus-rider who becomes in the space of five 
minutes a belted knight, a kilted Highlander, 
a buy-a-brooni girl, General Washington, and 
William in " Black-eyed Susan," all the while 
careering madly on one bare-backed steed, might 
have envied my celerity. I was at Niagara. 
Where were the Falls 1 About a mile and a half 
distant. 

I was enabled to secure a little ramshackle " one- 
horse shay " of a curricle, with a horse not much 
bigger than an Exmoor pony, and such a very tall 
and stout Irishman for a driver, that I expected 
every moment, with my superabundant weight, 
that the springs would break, and the entire con- 
cern go to irremediable "pi." The Irish driver 
was jocular and loquacious, but appeared .some- 
what disgusted with the world in general, and 
Niagara in particular. To every remark he made 
he added the observation that it was " a divil of a 
place." I asked if there were any tourists here 
just now. " Begorra, there's nobody," he re- 
plied. I asked which was the best hotel. " Be- 
gorra, there's none," he responded ; " they're all 
shut up. It's a divil of a place." I was somewhat 
disconsolate at the receipt of this information, so 
I asked him if he knew where we could get some 
breakfa.st. " Divil a bit of breakfast is there for 
love or money. It's a divil of a place ; " but he 
added, with a glance of that sly humour for which 
his countrymen are unrivalled, " the Falls are in 



illigant condition, and you may see them all the 
year round for nothing." 

He was driving me along the brink of a steep 
and abrupt precipice — a mere ledge of read 
like the commencement of the Cornice at Genoa. 
On the near side arose, not mormtains, but rows of 
naked larch and stunted pollard. Beyond them 
were the ice-bound fields, with here and there 
clumps of the black funereal pine, standing like 
mutes at the door of one who had died in mid- 
winter. The snow was all around in lumps and 
nuggets — in festoons, as though old Father 
Christmas had hung his trees with bundles of 
store-canliles — in great sheets, deep and compact, 
with the thin layer of last night's frosty glaze upon 
them. The sky looked thick and soft — a very 
-blanket-covering of snow that was to fall soon and 
envelop us. The stark saplings came up rigid 
and spiky through the ghastly mantle, like the 
beard from the cheek of a dead man. There was 
an evil wind blowing about a few leaves, so 
brown and withered that they must have belonged 
to the autumn before last. The declivity of the 
precipice looked horrilile, and hundreds of feet 
down, so it seemed, rushed along a black, swollen, 
and sullen river. 

The road made a slight curve. "Begorra, there 
they are!" cried the driver, pointing with his 
whip. I strained my eyes, looked down, and saw, 
so close upon me that I thought I could have leaped 
into their midst, but they were at least a mile dis- 
tant — the Falls of Niagara, 

How it was that the ramshackle shay, the little 
horse, and the big driver utterly vanished from my 
view and remembrance, I shall probably never be 
able to realise. I suppose I must have got out of 
the chaise somehow, and given the man a dollar ; 
but how it all came about I have not the dimmest 



NIAGARA. IN WINTER. 



113 



TecoUection. I found myself standing on the very 
•edge of the precipice, straining with a dull stare of 
absorption at the two Falls — the American and the 
Horseshoe — which were within my view. I saw 
•over against me the Niagara river running between 
.-steep and precipitous banks, very much resembling 
those of Clifton Heights in England ; and over 
the bank opposite to me there was rushing with 



American Fall, with much more foam at the 
bottom, and casting up not a cloud, but a column 
of spray — a column like a water-spout — like Lot's 
wife — like the Pillar that went before the Israelites 
by day and night — and rising many scores of 
feet above the level of the cataract. This was the 
great Fall, the Canadian Fall, the Horseshoe Fall. 
This forms the half-circle from Goat Island to the 




Niagara in Winter : a Tree crushed by Frozen Spkat. 



almost mathematical exactitude an enormous 
stream of water. At the base a great cloud of 
foam and spray arose. This was the American 
FaU. Then the bank stretched away, and I coidd 
see some large and small houses, and an island 
thickly wooded, at whose head was a lighthouse- 
looking tower, approached by a causeway. This 
was Goat Island and Terrapin Tower. Then the 
lower bed of the river became a ad de sac, a blind 
alley, its finial being curved in a great wall of 
rock, and over this was precipitated from the 
upper bed a much more enormous stream of 
water, its edges raggeder than those of the 




Canadian side of the river. Three parts of it 
belong incontestably to Great Britain, and it can 
only be seen to advantage from the British side ; 
but our cousins are very angry that it should be 
called the Canadian Fall, and claim more than half 
of it as their own. 

These then were the famous Falls I had come so 
far to see ; — 144 rods wide, 1.58 feet high, 1,500 
millions of cubic feet of water tumbling over a 
wall of rock every minute, a column of spray 200 
— some say 300 — feet in altitude . Well, I confess 
that as I stood staring, there came over me a 
sensation of bitter disappointment. And was thia 



114 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



aU? You who have seen the field of Waterloo, who 
have seen the Pyramids, who have seen St. Peter'o, 
bear with me. Was this all ? There was a great 
deal of water, a great deal of foam, a great deal 
of spray, and a thundering noise. This loas all, 
abating the snow where I stood and the black river 
beneath. These were the Falls of Niagara. They 
looked comparatively small, and the tvater looked 
dingy. Where was the grand eifect — the light and 
shade 1 There was, it is true, a considerable amount 
of effervescence ; but the foaminess of the Falls, 
together with the tinge of tawny yellow in the 
troubled waters, only reminded me of so much 
unattainable soda and sherry, and made me feel 
thirstier than ever. 

I found a wretched little place open, half tavern 
and half Indian curiosity shop, but on the roof it 
. had a belvedere. 1 was permitted to ascend this, 
and a civil negro serving man volunteered to ac- 
company me. There was a good view from the 
belvedere, and 1 remained staring at the Falls for 
another half -hour, the negro remaining silent by my 
side. I asked him, almost mechanically, whether 
the water was continually rushing over at that 
rate. I had spoken like a fool, and he answered 
me according to my folly. " I 'spect, massa," he 
said, "they goes on for ebber and ebber." Re- 
marks as absurd and incongruous as mine, have 
become historical among the ana of Niagara. A 
: Swiss watchmaker observed that he was very glad 
:"de beautiful ting was going." He looked upon 
■ it as some kind of clockwork arrangement, which 
would run down and be wound up again. Every- 
body knows the story of the 'cute Yankee who 
called it "an almighty water privilege." It is 
one, and would turn all the mill-wheels in the 
world. 

Being on the American side, we crossed a smaller 
suspension bridge to Goat Island. We wandered 
around its half-snowed-up lanes, and then, so 
slippery was the ice, crawled on our hands and 
knees along a stone causeway to Terrapin Tower, 
and from its summit looked upon the Falls. Then 
we went to see the Rapids by the Cataract House, 
which appeared to me a mass of intolerable suds, 
and put me in mind of nothing half so much as a 
gigantic washing-day. There was no colour, no 
light and shade : nothing but water and foam, 
water and spray, water and noise. And every- 
thing dingy. We were lowered down an inclined 
plane in a species of horse-box on the American 
side, and there found a ferry-boat to convey us 
across the Niagara river to Canada. From the 
river there was a much better view of both Falls. 
They looked considerably taller, but they were still 
dingy. The boatman was a most savage-looking 
person ; cursed us when we paid him in paper 
instead of silver, and I thought when we landed 
that he would have dismissed us with a clout of 



his oar, as Charon does in Gustave Doric's picture" 
of the souls crossing the Styx, in the "Inferno." 
Then we scrambled over stones, rimy with ice, and 
slipped down glassy declivities, a la Montagtie 
Russe, and creeping close to the base of the fall, 
right under the lee of Table Rock, peeped at 
the masses of frozen spray and great blocks and 
boulders of ice piled one atop of another — a cold 
eruption of the Glacial Pariod. 

We thus wandered about, talking very little, 
until early in the afternoon, when my friend sug- 
gested lunch. We had ascended to the river bank 
on the Canada side by this time, and in the high- 
way, close to Table Rock, found, to our great joy, 
that Mr. Sol Davis's well-known establishment, 
was open. Mr. Sol Davis sells Indian curiosities, 
and Lowther Arcade and Ramsgate Bazaar nick- 
nacks of every description ; and a very stiff pricL' 
does Mr. Sol Davis charge for those objects of 
vertti. Mr. Sol Davis likewise sells cigars, and 
stereoscopic slides of the Falls ; and Mr. Sol 
Davis has, to sum up his wealth of accommodation 
for tourists, a bar in the rear of his premises where 
exciseable articles are retailed. Mrs. Sol Davis 
is a very comely and affable matron, with a shar]> 
eye to business ; and Miss Sol Davis is very 
beautiful, but haughty. 

Mr. Sol Davis, junior, the fourth in this worthy 
quartette, is a character. Said he to me, when 
he became better acquainted with me : 

" WhsX might be your business, now 1 'i 

Wishing to keep within the limits of the truth, 
and at the same time not to be too communicative, 
I replied that paper-staining was my business. 

" Ah ! paper-staining. Do pretty well at it 1 " 
continued Mr. Sol Davis, junior. 

I said that I did do pretty well, considering. 

" Ah ! " pursued my interlocutor, " you should go 
in for felt hats. My brother-in-law went out to 
San Francisco, a year and seven months ago, and 
he's made a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, all 
out of felt hats. Think of that ! " 

I did think that, in case the paper-staining 
business came to grief, I would follow the friendly 
advice of Mr. Sol Davis, junior, and go in for felt 
hats. 

We lunched at Mr. Sol Davis's, in a very cosy 
little back parlour, and an admirable roast fowl 
and a capital bottle of Medoc we had. Then my 
friend took a nap, and then, feeling somewhat 
reKeved, with a fragrant " planter " from Mr. Sol 
Davis's private box between my lips, I strolled 
out to have another view of the Falls. It was 
now about three o'clock in the afternoon. I stood 
on the brink of Table Rock and gazed once more 
on the great, dreary, colourless expanse of water, 
foam, and spray. And this was Niagara, and 
there was nothing more. 

Nothing? With a burst like the sound of a 



THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 



115 



trumpet, the sudden Sun came out. God bless 
him ! there he was ; and there, too, in the midst 
of the foaming waters, was set the Everlasting- 
Bow. The rainbow shone out upon the cataract ; 
the sky turned blue ; the bright clarion had 
.served to call all Nature to arms ; the very birds 
that had been flapping dully over the spray 
throughout the morning began to sing ; and look- 
ing around me I saw that the whole scene had be- 
come glorified. There was light and colour every- 
where. The river ran a stream of liquid gold. 



The dark hiUs glistened. The boulders of ice 
sparkled like gems. The snow was all bathed in 
iris tints — crimson, and yellow, and blue, and 
green, and orange, and violet. The white houses 
and belvederes started up against the azure like 
the mosques and minarets of Stamboul, and, 
soaring high behind the Bow, was the great 
pillar of spray, glancing and flashing like an 
obelisk of diamonds. And it was then I began, as 
many men have begun, perchance, to wonder at 
and to love Niagara. 




NiAaAEi IN Summer. 



THE SONG OF THE SHIET.* 



[By Thomas Hood.) 




ITH fingers weary and worn, 
With eyelids heavy and red, 
^ A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 
'p Plying her needle and thread — 

'' Stitch — stitch — stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger and dirt, 

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 
She sang the " Song of the Shirt ! " 

"Work— work — work! 
, While the cock is crowing aloof ; 
And work — work — work. 
Till the stars shine through the roof ! 
It's O ! to be a slave 
Along with the barbarous Turk, 
Where woman has never a soul to save, 
If this is Christian work ! 

" Work — work — work 
Till the brain begins to swim ; 

Work — work — work 
Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 



Seam, and gusset, and band,^ 
Band, and gusset, and seam. 
Till over the buttons I fall asleep, 
And sew them on i7i a dream ! 

'' ! men with Sisters dear ! 

O ! men with Mothers and Wives ! 
It is not linen you're wearing out. 

But human creatures' lives ! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch. 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 
Sewing at once, with a double thread 

A Shroud as well as a Shirt. 

" But why do I talk of Death ? 

That phantom of grisly bone, 
I hardly fear his terrible shape. 

It seems so like my own — 
It seems so hke my own. 

Because of the fasts I keep. 
Oh ! God ! that bread should be so dear, 

And flesh and blood so cheap I 



* By permission of Messrs. "Word, I.ocTi, and Co. 



116 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



" Work — work — work ! 

My labour never flags ; 
And what are its wages'? A bed of straw, 

A crust of bread — and rags. 
That shattered roof, — and this naked floor,— 

A table, — a broken chair, — 
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 

For sometimes falling there. 

" Work — work — work ! 
From weary chime to chime, 

Work — work — work — 
As prisoners work for crime ! 



" Oh ! but to breathe the breath 
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet — ■ 

With the sky above my head. 

And the grass beneath my feet, 
For only one short hour 

To feel as I used to feel, 
Before I knew the woes of want, 

And the walk that costs a meal ! 

" Oh ! but for one short hour ! 

A respite, however brief ! 
No blessed leisure for Love or Hopeij 

But only time for Grief ! 




"Work— WOKE -WOKE ! ' 



Band, and gusset, and seam. 
Seam, and gusset, and band, 
Till the heart is sick, and the brain 
benumbed, 
As well as the weary hand. 

" Work — work — work. 
In the dull December light, 

And work — work — work, 
AVhen the weather is warm and bright- 
While underneath the eaves 

The brooding swallows cling, 
As if to show me their sunny backs 

And twit me with the Spring. 



A little weeping would ease my hearty. 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 

Hinders needle and thread ! " 

With fingers weary and worn. 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread — 
Stitch — stitch — stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, — 
Would that its tone could reach the rich t 

She sang this " Song of the Shirt ! " 



AT MRS. JELLYBY'S. 



117 



AT MES. JELLYBY'S* 

[From " Bleak House." By Charles Dickens.] 




^HERE is 'there,' Mr. Guppy'? " said 
Richard, as we went down stairs. 

" No distance," said Mr. Guppy ; 
"round in Tha vies' Inn, you know." 
We all three laughed, and chatted 
about our inexperience, and the 
strangeness of London, until we turned up 
under an archway, to our destination : a 
narrow street of high houses, like an oblong 
cistern to hold the fog. There was a confused 
little crowd of people, principally children, 
gathered about the house at which we stopped, 
which had a tarnished brass plate on the door, 
with the inscription Jellyby. 

" Don't be frightened ! " said Mr. Guppy, look- 
ing in at the coach- window. " One of the young 
JeUybys been and got his head through the area 
railings ! " 

"O poor child," said I, "let me out, if you 
please ! " 

" Pray be careful of yourself, miss. The young 
•Jellybys are always up to something," said Mr. 
Guppy. 

I made my way to the poor chUd, who was one 
of the dirtiest little unfortunates I ever saw, and 
found him very hot and frightened, and crying 
loudly, fixed by the neck between two iron rail- 
ings, while a milkman and a beadle, with the 
kindest intentions possible, were endeavouring to 
drag him back by the legs, under a general 
impression that his skull was compressible by 
those means. As I found (after pacifying him), 
that he was a little boy with a naturally large 
head, I thought that, perhaps, where his head 
could go his body could follow, and mentioned 
that the best mode of extrication might be to 
push him forward. This was so favourably 
received by the milkman and beadle, that he 
would immediately have been pushed into the area, 
if I had not held his pinafore, while Richard and 
Mr. Guppy ran down through the kitchen, to 
catch him when he should be released. At last 
he was happily got down without any accident, 
and then he began to beat Mr. Guppy with a 
hoop-stick in quite a frantic mannei-. 

Nobody had appeared belonging to the house, 
except a person in pattens, who had been poking 
at the chUd from below with a broom ; 1 don't 
know with what object, and I don't think she did. 
I therefore supposed that Mrs. Jellyby was not 
at home ; and was quite surprised when the 
person appeared in the passage without the 
pattens, and going up to the back room on the 
first floor, before Ada and me, announced us as. 



" Them two young ladies, Missis Jellyby ! " We 
passed several more children on our way up, 
whom it was difficult to avoid treading on in the 
dark ; and as we came into Mrs. Jellyby 's- 
presence, one of the poor little things fell down- 
stairs — down a whole flight (as it sounded to me),, 
with a great noise. 

Mrs. Jellyby, whose face reflected none of the 
uneasiness which we could not help showing in- 
our own faces, as the dear child's head recorded 
its passage with a bmnp on every stair — Richard 
afterwards said he counted seven, besides one for 
the landing — received us with perfect equanimity. 
She was a jjretty, very diminutive, plump woman,, 
of from forty to fifty, with handsome eyes, though 
they had a curious habit of seeming to look a long 
way ofi". As if — I am quoting Richard again — 
they could see nothing further than Africa! 

" I am very glad indeed," said Mrs. Jellyby, in 
an agreeable voice, "to have the pleasure of 
receiving you. I have a great respect for Mr.. 
Jarndyce ; and no one in whom he is interested- 
can be an object of indifference to me." 

We expressed our acknowledgments, and sat 
down behind the door where there was a lame 
invalid of a sofa. Mrs Jellyby had very good 
hair, but was too much occupied with her African 
duties to brush it. The shawl in which she had 
been loosely mufiled dropped on to her chair 
when she advanced to us ; and as she turned to 
resume her seat, we could not help noticing that 
her dress didn't nearly meet up the back, and that 
the open space was railed across with a lattice- 
work of stay-lace — like a summer-house. 

The room, which was strewed with papers and' 
nearly filled with a great writing-table covered 
with similar litter, was, I must say, not only very 
untidy, but very dirty. We were obliged to take 
notice of that with our sense of sight, even while, 
with our sense of hearing, we followed the poor 
child who had tumbled down stairs : I think into 
the back kitchen, where somebody seemed to stifle 
him. 

But what principally struck us was a jaded, and 
unhealthy-looking, though by no means plain girl, 
at the writing-table, who sat biting the feather of 
her pen, and staring at us. I suppose nobody ever 
was in such a state of ink. And, from her tumbled 
hair to her pretty feet, which were disfigured with 
frayed and broken satin slippers trodden down at 
heel, she really seemed to have no article of dress- 
upon her, from a pin upwards, that was in its 
proper condition or its right place. 

" You find me, my dears," said Mrs. Jellyby, 



* By permission of Messrs. Chapman and Hall (Limited). 



118 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAE AUTHORS. 



snuffing the two great office candles in tin candle- 
sticks which made the room taste strongly of hot 
tallow (the fire had gone out, and there was 
nothing in the grate but ashes, a bundle of wood, 
and a poker), "you find me, my dears, as usual, very 
busy; but that you will excuse. The African 
project at present employs my whole time. It 
involves me in correspondence with public bodies, 
and with private individuals anxious for the 
welfare of their species all over the country. I 
am happy to say it is advancing. We hope by 
this time next year to have from a hundred and 
fifty to two hundred healthy families cultivating 
cofifee and educating the natives of Borrioboola- 
Gha, on the left bank of the Niger." 

As Ada said nothing, but looked at me, I said it 
must be very gratifying. 

"It is gratifying," said Mrs. Jellyby. "It 
involves the devotion of all my energies, such as 
they are ; but that is nothing, so that it succeeds ; 
and I am more confident of success every day. 
Do you know. Miss Summerson, I almost wonder 
that you never turned your thoughts to Africa 1 " 

This application of the subject was really so 
unexpected to me, that I was quite at a loss how 
to receive it. I hinted that the climate 

" The finest climate in the world ! " said Mrs. 
Jellyby. 

"Indeed, ma'am 1 " 

" Ce. tainly. With precaution," said Mrs. Jellyby. 
" You may go into Holborn, without precaution, 
and be run over. You may go into Holborn, with 
precaution and never be run over. Just so with 
Africa." 

I said, "No doubt." — I meant as to Holborn. 

"If you would like," said Mrs. Jellyby, putting 
a number of papers towards us, "to look over 
some remarks on that head, and on the general 
subject (which have been extensively circulated), 
while I finish a letter I am now dictating — to my 
eldest daughter, who is my amanuensis " 

The girl at the table left off biting her pen, and 
made a return to our recognition, which was 
half bashful and half sulky. 

"—I shall then have finished for the present," 
proceeded Mrs. Jellyby, with a sweet smile ; 
" though my work is never done. Where are you, 
Caddy « " 

" ' Presents her compliments to Mr. Swallow, 
and begs ' " said Caddy. 

" ' — And begs,' " said Mrs. Jellyby, dictating, 
" ' to inform him, in reference to his letter of 
inquiry on the African project.' — No, Peepy ! Not 
on any account ! " 

Peepy (so self-named) was the unfortunate child 
•who had fallen down stairs, who now interrupted 
the correspondence by presenting himself, with a 
strip of plaster on his forehead, to exhibit his 
■wounded knees, in which Ada and I did not know 



which to pity most — the bruises or the dirt. Mrs. 
Jellyby merely added, with the serene composure 
with which she said everything, " Go along, you 
naughty Peepy ! " and fixed her fine eyes on 
Africa again. 

However, as she at once proceeded with her 
dictation, and as I interrupted nothing by doing 
it, I ventured quietly to stop poor Peepy as he 
was going out, and to take him up to nurse. He 
looked very much astonished at it, and at Ada's 
kissing him ; but soon fell fast asleep in my arms, 
sobbing at longer and longer intervals, until he 
was quiet. I was so occupied with Peepy that I 
lost the letter in detail, though I derived such a 
general impression from it of the momentous 
importance of Africa and the utter insignificance 
of all other places and things, that I felt quite 
ashamed to have thought so little about it. 

" Six o'clock ! " said Mrs. Jellyby. " And our 
dinner hour is nominally (for we dine at all hours) 
five ! Caddy, show Miss Clare and Miss Summer- 
son their rooms. You would like to make some 
change, perhaps? You will excuse me, I know, 
being so much occupied. O, that very bad child ! 
Pray put him down. Miss Summerson ! " 

I begged permission to retain him, truly saying 
that he was not at all troublesome ; and carried 
him upstairs and laid him on my bed. Ada and 
I had two upper rooms, with a door of com- 
munication between. They were excessively bare 
and disorderly, and the curtain to my window was 
fastened up with a fork. 

" You would like some hot water, wouldn't 
you ? " said Miss Jellyby, looking round for a jug 
with a handle to it, but looking in vain. 

" If it is not being troublesome," said we. 

" O, it's not the trouble," returned Jliss Jellyby ; 
" the question is, if there is any." 

The evening was so very cold, and the rooms 
had such a marshy smell, that I must confess it 
was a little miserable ; and Ada was half crying. 
We soon laughed, however, and were busily 
unpacking, when Miss Jellyby came back to say, 
that she was sorry there was no hot water ; but 
they couldn't find the kettle, and the boiler was 
out of order. 

We begged her not to mention it, and made all the 
haste we could to get down to the fire again. But 
all the little children had come up to the landing 
outside, to look at the phenomenon of Peepy 
lying on my bed ; and our attention was dis- 
tracted by the constant apparition of noses and 
fingers, in situations of danger between the hinges 
of the doors. It was impossible to shut the door 
of either room ; for my lock, with no knob to it, 
looked as if it wanted to be wound up ; and 
though the handle of Ada's went round and round 
with the greatest smoothness, it was attended with 
no effect whatever on the door. Therefore I 



BEN BLOWER'S STOEY. 



119 



proposed to the children that they shoxild come in 
and be very good at my table, and I would teU 
them the story of little Red Riding Hood while I 
dressed; which they did, and were as quiet as 
mice, including Peepy, who awoke opportunely 
before the appearance of the wolf. 

When we went down stairs we found a mug, 
with " A Present from Tunbridge Wells " on it, 
lighted up in the staircase window with a floating 
wick ; and a young woman, with a swelled face 
bound up in a flannel bandage, blowing the fire of 
the drawing-room (now connected by an open 



door with Mrs. Jellyby's room), and choking 
dreadfully. It smoked to that degree in short, 
that we aU sat coughing and crying with the 
windows open for half an hour ; during which 
Mrs. Jellyby, with the same sweetness of temper, 
directed letters about Africa. Her being so 
employed was, I must say, a great relief to me ; 
for Richard told us that he had washed his hands 
in a pie-dish, and that they had found the kettle 
on his dressing-table ; and he made Ada laugh so, 
that they made me laugh in the most ridiculous 
manner. 




BEN BLOWER'S STORY. 

[By Charles F. Hoffman.) 



*RE you sure that's the Flame over by 
I the shore 1 " 

" C&cting, manny ! I could tell her 
pipes acrost the Mazoura."* 
" And you will overhaul her ? " 
" Won't we, though ! I tell ye, strannger, 
so sm-e as my name's Ben Blower, that 
last tar-bar'l I hove in the furnace has put jist 
the smart chance of go-ahead into us to cut ofi' 
the Flame from yonder pint, or send our boat to 
kingdom come." 

'■ The dickens ! " exclaimed a bystander who, 
intensely interested in the race, was leaning the 
while against the partitions of the boiler-room. 
" I've chosen a nice place to see the fun, near this 
powder-barrel." 

" Not so bad as if you were in it," coolly ob- 
served Ben, as the other walked rapidly away. 
" As if he were in it ! in what ? in the boiler 1 " 
" Cert-ingli/. Don't folks sometimes go into 
bilers, manny ? " 

" I should think there'd be other parts of the 
boat more comfortable." 

" That's right ; poking fun at me at once't ; but 
wait till we get through this brush with the old 
Flame, and I'U tell ye of a regular fixin scrape that 
a man may get into. It's true, too, every word of 
it, as sure as my name's Ben Blower." 

" You have seen the Flame then afore, strannger 1 
Six year ago, when new upon the river, she was a 
raal out and outer, I tell ye. I was at that time 
a hand aboard of her. Yes, I belonged to her at 
the time of her great race with the Go-liar. You've 
heem, mahap, of the blow-up by which we lost it. 
They made a great fuss about it ; but it was 
nothing but a mere fiz of hot water after aU. Only 



♦ The name " Missouri " is thus generally pronounced upon 
tte western waters. 



the springing of a few rivets, which loosened a 
biler-plate or two, and let out a thin spirting 
upon some niggers that hadn't sense enough to 
get out of the way. Well, the Go-liar took ofi' 
our passengers, and we ran into Smasher's Landing 
to repair damages, and bury them that were killed. 
Here we laid for a matter of thirty hours or so, 
and got things to rights on board for a bran new 
start. There was some carpenters' work yet to be 
done, but the captain said that that might be 
fixed off jist as well when we were under weigh — 
we had worked hard — the weather was sour, and 
we needn't do anything more jist now — we might 
take that afternoon to ourselves, but the next 
morning he'd get up steam bright and airly, and 
we'd all come out neic. There was no temperance 
society at Smasher's Landing, and I went ashort 
upon a lark with some of the hands." 

I omit the worthy Benjamin's adventures upon 
land, and, despairing of fully conveying his 
language in its original Doric force, will not 
hesitate to give the rest of his singular narrative 
in my own words, save where, in a few instances, 
I can recall his precise phraseology, which the 
reader will easily recognise. 

" The night was raw and sleety when I regained 
the deck of our boat. The officers, instead of 
leaving a watch above, had closed up everything, 
and shut themselves in the cabin. The fire-room 
only was open. The boards dashed from the out- 
side by the explosion had not been yet replaced. 
The floor of the room was wet, and there was scarcely 
a corner which afforded a shelter from the driving 
storm. I was about leaving the room, resigned 
to sleep in the open air, and now bent only upon 
getting under the lee of some bulkhead that would 
protect me against the wind. In passing out I 
kept my arms stretched forward to feel my way in 
the dark, but my feet came in contact with a 
heavy iron lid ; I stumbled, and, as I fell, struck 



120 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



one of my hands into the ' man-hole,' (I think this 
was the name he gave to the oval-shaped opening 
in the head of the boiler), through which the 
smith had entered to make his repairs. I fell 
with my arm thrust so far into the aperture that I 
received a pretty smart blow in the face as it came 
in contact with the head of the boiler, and I did 
mot hesitate to drag my body after it the moment 
I recovered from this stunning eifect, and ascer- 
tained my whereabouts. In a word, I crept into 
■.the boiler, resolved to pass the rest of the night 
there. The place was dry and sheltered. Had my 
bed been softer I would have had all that man 
■could desire ; as it was, I slept, and slept 
:soundly." 

" I should mention though, that, before closing 
"my eyes, I several times shifted my position. I 
had gone first to the farthest end of the boiler, 
then again I had crawled back to the man-hole, to 
put my hand out to feel that it was really still 
■open. The warmest place was at the farther end, 
where I finally established myself, and that I 
knew from the first. It was foolish in me to 
think that the opening through which I had just 
entered could be closed vsdthout my hearing it, and 
that, too, when no one was astir but myself ; but 
the blow on the side of my face made me a little 
nervous perhaps ; besides, I never could bear to be 
shut up in any place — it always gives a wild-like 
feeling about the head. You may laugh, stranger, 
but I believe I should .suffocate in an empty church 
if I once felt that I was so shut up in it that I 
could not get out. I have met men afore now, 
just like me, or worse rather, much worse — men 
that it made sort of furious, to be tied down to 
anything, yet so soft-like and contradictory in 
their natures that you might lead them anywhere 
so long as they didn't feel the string. Stranger, 
it takes all sorts of people to make a world ; and 
we may have a good many of the worst kind of 
white men here out west. But I have seen folks 
upon this river — quiet-looking chaps, too, as ever 
you see — who were so tetotally carankteranhterous 
that they'd shoot the doctor who'd tell them they 
couldn't live when ailing, and make a die of it, 
just out of spite, when told they mvM get well. 
Yes, fellows as fond of the good things of earth 
as you and I, yet who'd rush like mad right over 
the gang-plank of life if once brought to believe 
that they had to stay in this world whether they 
wanted to leave it or not. Thunder and bees ! 
if such a fellow as that had heard the cocks crow 
as I did — awakened to find darkness about him — 
darkness so thick you might cut it with a knife — 
heard other sounds, too, to tell that it was morning, 
and scrambling to fumble for that manhole, found 
it, too, black — closed — black — and even as the rest 
of that iron coffin around him, closed, with not a 
rivet-hole to let light and air in — why — 



why — he'd a swounded right down on the spot, as 
I did, and I ain't ashamed to own it to no white 
man." 

The big drops actually stood upon the poor 
fellow's brow, as he now paused for a moment in 
the recital of his terrible story. He passed his 
hand over his rough feature.^, and resumed it 
with less agitation of manner. 

" How long I may have remained there sense, 
less I don't know. The doctors have since told 
me it must have been a sort of fit — more like an 
apoplexy than a swoon, for the attack finally 
passed ofi' in sleep. Yes, I slept ; I know that, 
for I dreamed — dreamed a heap o' things afore 1 
awoke ; there is but one dream, however, that I 
have ever been able to recall distinctly, and that 
must have come on shortly before I recovered my 
consciousness. My resting-place through the 
night had been, as I have told you, at the far 
end of the boiler. Well, I now dreamed that the 
manhole was still open, and, what seems curious, 
rather than laughable, if you take it in connection 
with other things, I fancied that my legs had been 
so stretched in the long walk I had taken the 
evening before that they now reached the whole 
length of the boiler, and extended through the 
opening. 

" At first (in my dreaming reflections), it was a 
comfortable thought, that no one could now shut 
up the manhole without awakening me. But soon 
it seemed as if my feet, which were on the outside, 
were becoming drenched in the storm which had 
originally driven me to seek this shelter. I felt 
the chilling rain upon my extremities. They grew 
colder and colder, and their numbness gradually 
extended upward to other parts of my body. It 
seemed, however, that it was only the under side 
of my person that was thus strangely visited. I 
lay upon my back, and it must have been a species 
of nightmare that afflicted me, for I knew at last 
that I was dreaming, yet felt it impossible to rouse 
myself. A violent fit of coughing restored at last 
my powers of volition. The water, which had 
been slowly rising around me, had rushed into my 
mouth ; I awoke to hear the rapid strokes of the 
pump which was driving it into the boiler ! 

" My whole condition — no — not all of it — not 
yet — raj 2^resent condition flashed with new horror 
upon me. But I did not again swoon. The 
choking sensation which had made me faint when 
I first discovered how I was entombed gave way 
to a livelier though less overpowering emotion. I 
shrieked even as I started from my slumber. The 
previous discovery of the closed aperture, with the 
instant oblivion that followed, seemed only a part 
of my dream, and I threw my arms about and 
looked eagerly for the opening by which I had 
entered the horrid place — yes, looked for it, and 
felt for it, though it was the terrible conviction 



BEN BLOWER'S STORY. 



121 



that it was closed — a second time brought home 
to me — which prompted my frenzied cry. Every 
sense seemed to have tenfold acuteness, yet not one 
to act in miison with another. I shrieked again 
and again — imploringly — desperately — savagely. 
I filled the hollow chamber with my cries, till its 
iron walls seemed to tingle around me. The dull 
strokes of the accm'sed pump seemed only to 
mock at, while they deadened, my screams. 

" At last I gave myself up. It is the struggle 
against our fate which frenzies the mind. We 
cease to fear when we cease to hope. I gave my- 
self up, and then I grew calm ! 

" I was resigned to die — resigned even to my 
jnode of death. It was not, I thought, so very 
new after all, as to awaken unwonted horror 
in a man. Thousands have been sunk to 
the bottom of the ocean shut up in the holds of 
vessels — beating themselves against the battened 
hatches — dragged down from the upper world 
shrieking, not for life, but for death only beneath 
the eye and amid the breath of heaven. Thousands 
have endured that appalling kind of suffocation. 
I would die only as many a better man had died 
before me. I could meet such a death. I said so 
— I thought so — I felt so — felt so, I mean, for a 
minute — or more ; ten minutes it may have been — 
or but an instant of time. I know not, nor does 
it matter il I could compute it. There ivas a time, 
then, when I was resigned to my fate. But, 
Heaven ! was I resigned to it in the shape in 
which next it came to appal? Stranger, I felt 
that water growing hot about my limbs, though 
it was yet mid-leg deep. I felt it, and in the 
«ame moment heard the roar of the furnace that 
was to turn it into steam before it could get deep 
enough to drown one ! 

" You shudder. It was hideous. But did I 
shrink and shrivel, and crumble down upon that 
iron floor, and lose my senses in that horrid agony 
of fear ? No ! though my brain swam and the life- 
blood that curdled at my heart seemed about to 
stagnate there for ever, still / hieiv ! I was too 
hoarse — too hopeless — from my previous efforts, to 
cry out more. But I struck — feebly at first, and 
then strongly — frantically with my clenched fi.st 
against the sides of the boiler. There were people 
moving near who 7nust hear my blows ! Could not 
I hear the grating of chains, the shufliing of feet, 
the very rustic of a rope — hear them all, within a 
few inches of me 1 I did ; but the gurgling water 
that was growing hotter and hotter around my ex- 
tremities made more noise within the steaming caul- 
dron than did nvy frenzied blows against its sides. 

" Latterly I had hardly changed my position, 
but now the growing heat of the water made me 
plash to and fro ; lifting myself wholly out of it 
was impossible, but I could not remain quiet. 
I stumbled upon something; it was a mallet, 



a chance tool the smith had left there by accident. 
With what wUd joy did 1 seize it — with what 
eager confidence did I now deal my first blows 
with it against the walls of my prison! But 
scarce had I intermitted them for a moment 
when I heard the clang of the iron door as the 
fireman flimg it wide to feed the flames that were 
to torture me. My knocking was unheard, though 
I could hear him toss the sticks into the furnace 
beneath me, and drive to the door when his oven 
was fully crammed. 

" Had I yet a hope 1 I had ; but it rose in my 
mind side by side with the fear that I might now 
become the agent of preparing myself a more 
frightful death. Yes ; when I thought of that 
furnace with its fresh-fed flames curling beneath 
the iron upon which I stood — a more frightful 
death even than that of being boiled alive I Had 
I discovered that mallet but a short time sooner 
—but no matter, I would by its aid resort to the 
only expedient now left. 

" It was this. I remembered having a marline 
spike in my pocket, and in less time than I have 
taken in hinting at the consequences of thus 
using it, I had made an impression upon the sides 
of the boiler, and soon succeeded in driving it 
through. The water gushed through the aperture 
—would they see it 1 No ; the jet could only 
play against a wooden partition which must hide 
the stream from view ; it must trickle down upon 
the decks before the leakage would be discovered. 
Should I drive another hole to make that leakage 
greater 1 Why, the water within seemed already 
to be sensibly diminished, so hot had become that 
which remained ; should more escape, would I not 
hear it bubble and hiss upon the fiery plates of iron 
that were already scorching the soles of my feet ? 

" Ah ! there is a movement — voices — I hear 
them calling for a crowbar. The bulkhead cracks 
as they pry off the planking. They have seen the 
leak— they are trying to get at it ! Good God ! 
why do they not first dampen the fire 1 why do 
they call for the — the — 

" Stranger, look at that finger : it can never 
regain its natural size ; but it has already done all 
the service that man could expect from so humble 
a member. Sir, that hole icould have been plugged 
lip on the instant unless / had jammed my finger 
through ! 

"I heard the cry of horror as they saw it 
without— the shout to drown the fire— the first 
stroke of the cold-water pump. They say, too, 
that I was conscious when they took me out— but 
I— I remember nothing more till they brought a 
julep to my bedside arterwards, And thai julep!— " 

" Cooling, was it 1, " 

" SlEAyNGEP, ! ! ! " 

Ben turned away his head and wept— He could 
say no more. 



122 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



A EEALLY GOOD DAY'S riSHESTG. 

[By James Payn.] 




HAVE a most un- 
feigned admiration 
of good old Izaak 
Walton, and all 
fishermen ; I like 
to think of them 
as contemplative 
men, who might 
have been anything 
they chose — states- 
men, divines, i^oets 
— only that they 
preferred being 
fishermen — lovers 
of their kind, lovers of scenery, lovers of all 
living things, and possessing some good and 
miquestionable proof that the worm, which they 
thread alive upon their pitiless hook, and which, 
to the ordinary eye certainly seems not to hke 
it, does not in reality suffer in the . least. I con- 
fess I have been many times upon the verge of 
calling Piscator, my uncle, from whom I have 
expectations which such an appellation would 
ruin, a cruel and cold-blooded old villain for the 
quiet way in which he will torture his live bait 
— never taking the poor creature off until it has 
wriggled its last, and then instantly impaling a 
fresh victim — or selecting a lively minnow out of 
his green water-box, and throvping him into the 
pleasant river, his wished-for home, with a hook 
that he does not know of at iirst, poor thing, in his 
under-jaw. When he has done his duty even ever 
so well, and given warning of the approach of prey 
in the most sagacious manner by pulling at the 
float, and has been rescued alive, Jonah-like, from 
the interior of some enormous fish, Piscator will 
not yet suffer him to depart, but, confessing that 
he is a very good bait— as if that compliment 
could atone for these many indignities and pains 
— drops him again delicately into the stream ; con- 
duct only to be equalled by that of the widow lady in 
the legend, whose late husband's body is discovered 
by her lover in the garden fish-pond, a receptacle 
for eels ; upon which, " Poor dear Sir Thomas," said 
the lady, "put him in again, ptrhapB he'll catch us 
some more." Worse than aU, to my taste, looks 
my revered uncle, when he is running after a 
May-fly, in order to impale that : one can bear to 
see a boy in pursuit of a butterfly, because it is 
not so much cruelty that actuates him as curiosity ; 
but an old gentleman, bald, pursy — which epithet 
reminds me that I must not let Piscator peruse 
these remarks — and perspiring, striving to catch 
and put to death, imder circumstances of peculiar 



atrocity, a happy and inoffensive insect, is a 
shameful sight. No ; I confess I like to see fisher- 
men use artificial flies ; the mere hooking of 
the fish — which, after all, are meant to be eaten 
— through those horny, bloodless lips of theirs 
I don't believe is verj^ painful ; and I regard these 
baits with a clear conscience. A good fisherman's 
book is a museum of unnatural science, and I like 
to examine it gratis upon some river-bank, with a 
cigar in my mouth, while Piscator fishes. He sets 
about this new creation about October, and by 
April has finished quite a pocket-full of these 
additions to nature. This scarlet fly, almost as 
big as a bird of paradise, must have taken him a 
good long time. " It is a military insect, and a 
most tremendous bait for the female," says my 
vincle, who, I am thankful to say, is a confirmed 
old bachelor ; "there is nothing in that fine 
creature whatever except a little wood and wire ; 
but he kills. Bob — he kills." 

Why, by-the-bye, do pursy old fellows, after 
fifty, almost without exception, repeat then- 
words 1 

" It IS a fine day," observes Piscator, when I 
salute him in the morning — "a very fine day — a 
very fine day, indeed. Bob," as though there was. 
somebody contradicting that assertion. " And 
your mother is well, is she. Bob I Your mother is 
well ] Good, Bob, good — very good." I think 
they have some idea that this makes an ordinary- 
sentence remarkable, and they wish, perhaps, to 
give you an opportunity or two of setting it down 
in your note-book. 

" What is this huge black and white fly, uncle," I 
inquire, " like an excellent imitation of a death's- 
head moth 1 " 

" Death's-head fiddlestick ! " cries Piscator, in a 
fury, " it's nothing of the kind, Bob — nothing of 
the kind. I call it the Popular Preacher^ and it 
is also a good bait for the female — the serious 
female, that is. I have killed a number of chub 
with that fly. Sir — a number of stout chub." 

There is a sort of box, also, attached to Piscator's 
book which contains even still more wonderful 
efiigies ; spinning minnows, tvrice as large as any 
in real hfe, and furnished with Archimedean screws; 
mice with machinery inside instead of intestines^ 
and composite animals — half toad, half gargoyle 
— of which pike are supposed to become readily 
enamoured. 

What a glorious amusement must indeed be 
that of the fly-fisher, climbing, up in his huge 
waterproof boots the bed of some rock-strewn 
stream, amid the music of a hundred falls, and 



A REALLY GOOD DAY'S FISHING. 



123 



tinder the branching shelter of the oak and moun- 
tain ash, through which the sunbeams weave 
such faiiy patterns upon his watery path ! I never 
could throw a fly myself by reason of those same 
branches ; I left my uncle's favourite killer — 
brown, with a yellow stripe — at the top of an 
inaccessible alder, on our very last expedition 
together, just after we had taken a great deal of 
trouble, too, in its extrication from the right calf 
of Piscator, where I had inadvertently hitched it. 
I am too clumsy and near-sighted, and indeed 
much too impatient for the higher flights of fish- 
ing. Piscator starts in the dusk, in order to be up 
at some mountain-tarn by dayhght, and comes 
back in the evening with half-a-dozen fine trout, 
well satisfied ; now I would much rather have 
half-an-hour's fishing for bleak in a ditch with a 
landing-net. 

However, at the end of this last summer, I 
had one really good day's fishing, killing with my 
single rod, carp and trout of such magnitude and 
number as Piscator himself would have been 
proud to tell of ; and it came to pass in this way. 

The Marquis of B , whom I call " B." in 

•conversation with strangers — is a good friend 
of mine, who has known me for many years. If 
he met me in the market place of our borough, 
his lordship would, I am sure, say : " How d'ye 
do 1 " or, " How are you 1 " and thank me, per- 
haps, for the pains I took about the return of his 
second son. I have dined more than once at the 
Hall, during election time, and his lordship has 
not failed to observe to me : "A glass of wine 
with you 1 " or, " Will you join us, my dear Sir 1 " 
■quite confidentially upon each occasion ; the 
words may be nothing indeed, but his lordship's 
manner is such that I protest that when he speaks 
to me I feel as if / had had the ivine. Well, only a 
month ago, he sent me a card, permitting me to 
have one day's fishing in his home preserves. 
Piscator tried to persuade me to give up it to him, 
but I said " No," because he can catch fish anywhere 
and I do not possess that faculty ; so he gave me 
the most minute directions overnight, and lent me 
his famous book of flies, and his best rod. 

How beautiful looked the grand old park upon 
that August morning! The deer — 

" In copse and fern, 
Twinkled the iunumerable ear and tail," — 

cropping with reverted glance the short rich 
herbage, or bounding across the carriage drives in 
herds ; the mighty oak-trees, shadowing half-an- 
acre each ; the sedgy pools, with water-fowl rising 
from their rims with sudden cry ; and the wind- 
ing brooks, where shot the frequent trout from 
side to side. Now from their right banks I fished 
— now from their left ; and now, regretful that I 
•did not borrow Piscator's boots, I strode, with 



turned-up trousers, in the very bed of the stream ; 
still I could not touch a fin. I begau to think 
that my uncle had given me, out of envy, wrong 
directions, and provided me with impossible flies. 
At last I came upon a large brown pool with a 
tumbling fall; and " Now," cried I aloud, "for a 
tremendous trout, or never ! " 

" Never," cried a hoarse voice, with provincial 
accent ; " I'm dang'd if thee isn't a cool hand, 
anyway." 

This was the keeper. I saw how the case stood 
at once, and determined to have a little sport of 
some kind, at all events. 

" Hush, my good man," I whispered, " don't 
make a noise ; I have reason to believe that there 
are fish here." 

" Woot thee coom out of t' stream (it was up 
to my waist), or maun I coom in and fetch thee 1 " 




"No," said I blandly, don't come in on any 
account, the least splash would be fatal : stay just 
where you are, and I daresay you will see me catch 
one in this very spot. It's beautiful weather." 

I got out upon one bank, as the giant, speechless 
with rage, slipped in from the other. When he 
had waded half-way across — 

" Do you think I am poaching, my good man 1 " 
inquired I innocently. 

" I knaws thee is't," quoth the keeper, adding a 
violent expletive. 

" Well, I have a card here from my friend B.," 
said I, " which I should have thought was quite 
sufficient." 

" Thy friend B. ! " roared the other sarcastically, 
" let me get at thee." 

" Yes," said I, " old B. of the Hall ; don't you 
know him 1 — the marquis." 

The dripping savage was obliged to confess 
that my ticket of permission was genuine. 



124 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



" But liow do I knaw as thee beest the right man 
as is named here "? " urged he, obstinatelj^ 

A cold sweat began to bedew me, for I had not 
thought it necessary to bring out my visiting cards. 

" Right man ! " cried I indignantly ; " of course 
I am, why not 1 " 

" Of eoorse, why of coorse," sneered the brutal 
ruffian, "thee must coom along with me." 

A bright thought suddenly flashed across me ; 
" Look here, my good man ; look at my pocket 
handkerchief ; J. P. ; aint those the right initials ? 
I'll tell B. of you as sure as you live." At which 
the giant, convinced against his will, left me in 
peace. 

I fished until dewy eve, and still caught nothing. 
At last, in the near neighbourhood of the Hall 
itself, I came upon a little pond environed by 
trees ; the fish were so numerous in it, that they 
absolutely darkened the water. I had only just 
lodged my fly on the surface, and behold ! I caught 
and easily landed a magnificent carp ; again, and a 
trout of at least six pounds rewarded me ; a third 
time, and I hooked another carp ; and so on. I 
was intoxicated with my success. In the couple of 
hours of daylight which yet remained to me, I filled 
not only Piscator's large.st fishing-basket, but my 
pockets also. " What will my uncle say to this ^ " 
thought I. He did not know what to say. We 
dined, we supped, we breakfasted off the very 
finest ; we spent the next morning in despatching 
the next best in baskets to distant friends. I was 
the hero of the family for four-and twenty hours, 
although Piscator tried to make out that it was all 
owing to the excellence of his flies. At four 



o'clock on the following afternoon, however, 
arrived my friend the keeper, taller than ever, 
pale with passion, more inimical- looking than on 
the day before. 

" Well, thee hast about been and done it with 
thy ticket and thy friend B.," c[Uoth he. 

" Yes," said I cheerfully, " you're right : I 
rather flatter myself I have. Sixty-seven pounds 
of fish, my man " (triumphantly). 

" Sixty-seven pounds ! " said he, with a ghastly 
grin. 

" Ay," said I, " not an ounce less : thirty pounds 
of carp, twenty pounds of trout, and seventeen 
pounds of — I'm hanged if I know what fish." 

"Thirty pounds of carp, twenty pounds of trout, 
and seventeen pounds of he's hanged if he knows 
what fish," repeated the keeper, as if he was going 
to cry. 

" Yes," added I ; " and all out of one little bit of 
a pond." 

" Pond ! " cried Piscator, entering the room at 
this juncture, " you never told me anything about 
a pond. Bob." 

" Well — no," said I, blushing a little. " I con- 
fess I thought it better to say stream. I did catch 
them in the pond close by the Hall." 

" Why, you've been fishing in the marquis's pri- 
vate stew, Bob ! " cried my uncle, horror-struck. 

"Yes," cried the keeper, blowing into his fists, 
as if preparing for a murderous assault upon my 
countenance ; " he's been a fishing in the stew- 
pond, in his friend B.'s private stew." 

And this was the only really good day's fishing 
I ever had. 




LOED ULLIN'S DAUGHTEE. 

[By Thomas Campbell.] 



CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound. 
Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! 

And I '11 give thee a silver pound 
To row us o'er the ferry." 

Now, who be ye would cross Lochgyle, 
This dark and stormy water 1" 
" Oh ! I'm the chief of Ulva's Isle, 
And this, Lord UUin's daughter. 

"And fast before her father's men 

Three days we've fled together ; 
For, should he find us in the glen. 

My blood would stain the heather. 

" His horsemen hard behind us ride ; 

Should they our steps discover. 
Then who will cheer my bonny bride 

When they have slain her lover ? " 



Out spoke the hardy island wight, 
" I '11 go, my chief — I 'm ready : 

It is not for your silver bright, 
But for your winsome lady. 

" And by my word, the bonny bird 

In danger shall not tarry ; 
So, though the waves are raging white, 

I '11 row you o'er the ferry." 

By this the storm grew loud apace, 
The water wraith was shrieking ; 

And in the scowl of heaven each face 
Grew dark as they were speaking. 

But still, as wilder blew the wind, 
And as the night grew drearer, 

Adown the glen rode armed men — 
Their trampling sounded nearer. 



LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 



125 



" Oil ! haste thee, haste ! " the lady cries, 
" Though tempests round us gather ; 

I '11 meet tlie raging of the skies. 
But not an angry father." 



For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade 

His child he did discover : 
One lovely hand she stretched for aid, 

And one was vnund her lover. 







At the Ferrt. {Drawn by ^f. Small.) 



The boat has left a stormy land, 

A stormy sea before her ; 
When, oh ! too strong for human hand, 

The tempest gathered o'er her. 

And stUl they rowed amidst the roar 

Of waters fast prevailing ; 
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore, 

His wrath was changed to wailing. 



" Come back ! come back ! " he cried in grief, 

" Across this stormy water ; 
And I '11 forgive your Highland chief. 

My daughter — oh ! my daughter ! " 

'Twas vain : the loud waves lashed the shore., 

Return or aid preventing ; 
The waters wild went o'er his chUd, 

And he was left lamentLag. 



126 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 




MY UNCLE EOLAND'S TALE* 

[By LOBD Lytion.] 



was in Spain, no matter where or 
how, that it was my fortune to 
take prisoner a French officer of 
the same rank that I then held — a 
lieutenant ; and there was so much 
similarity in our sentiments, that 
we became intimate friends — the 
most intimate friend I ever had, 
sister, out of this dear circle. He was a rough 
soldier, whom the world had not well treated ; 
but he never railed at the world, and maintained 
that he had had his deserts. Honour was his 
idol, and the sense of honour paid him for the loss 
of all else. 

"We were both at that time vokmteers in a 
foreign service — in that worst of service, civil 
war, — he on one side, I on the other, — both, 
perhaps, disappointed in the cause we had 
severally espovised. There was something similar, 
too, in our domestic relationships. He had a son 
— a boy — who was all in life to him, next to his 
country and his duty. I, too, had then such a 
son, though of fewer years." (The Captain paused 
an instant : we exchanged glances, and a stifling 
sensation of pain and suspense was felt by all his 
listeners.) " We were accustomed, brother, to talk; 
of these children — to picture their future, to 
compare our hopes and dreams. We hoped and 
dreamed alike. A short time sufficed to estabhsh 
this confidence. My prisoner was sent, to head- 
quarters, and soon afterwards exchanged. 

"We met no more till last year. Being then at 
Paris, I inquired for my old friend, and learned 

that he was living at R , a few miles from the 

capital. I went to visit him. I found his house 
empty and deserted. That very day he had been 
led to prison, charged with a terrible crime. I 
saw him in that prison, and from his own lips 
learned his story. His son had been brought up, 
as he fondly believed, in the habits and principles 
of honourable men ; and, having finished his 

education, came to reside with him at R . 

The young man was accustomed to go frequently 
to Paris. A young Frenchman loves pleasure, 
sister; and pleasure is found at Paris. The 
father thought it natural, and stripped his age of 
some comforts to supply luxuries to the son's 
youth. 

"Shortly after the young man's arrival, my 
friend perceived that he was robbed. Moneys 
kept in his bureau were abstracted he knew not 
how, nor could guess by whom. It must be done 



in the night. He concealed himself, and watched. 
He saw a stealthy figure glide in, he saw a false 
key applied to the lock — he started forward, 
seized the felon, and recognised his son. What 
should the father have done 1 1 do not ask pou, 
sister ! I ask these men, son and father, I ask 
you." 

" Expelled him the house," cried I. 

" Done his duty, and reformed the unhappy 
wretch," said my father. " Nemo rejyenie tur- 
2nssiimis semper fuit — No man is wholly bad all at 
once." 

" The father did as you would have advised, 
brother. He kept the youth ; he remonstrated 
with him ; he did more — he gave him the key of 
the bureau. 'Take what I have to give,' said 
he : ' I would rather be a beggar than know my 
son a thief.' " 

" Right : and the youth repented, and became a 
good man % " exclaimed my father. 

Captain Roland shook his head. " The youth 
promised amendment, and seemed penitent. He 
spoke of the temptations of Paris, the gaming- 
table, and what not. He gave up his daily visits 
to the capital. He seemed to apply to study. 
Shortly after this, the neighbourhood was alarmed 
by reports of night robberies on the road. Men 
masked and armed, plundered travellers, and 
even broke into houses. 

" The police were on the alert. One night an 
old brother officer knocked at my friend's door. It 
was late : the veteran (he was a cripple, by the 
way, like myself — strange coincidence ! ) was in 
bed. He came down in haste, when his servant 
woke and told him that his old friend, wounded 
and bleeding, sought an asylum under his roof. 
The wound, however, was slight. The guest had 
been attacked and robbed on the road. The next 
morning the proper authority of the town was 
sent for. The plundered man described bis loss — 
some hillets of five hundred francs in a pocket- 
book, on which was embroidered his name and 
coronet (he was a vicomte). The guest stayed to 
dinner. Late in the forenoon, the son looked in. 
The guest started to see him : my friend noticed 
his paleness. Shortly after, on pretence of faint- 
ness, the guest retired to his room, and sent for 
his host. ' My friend,' said he, ' can you do me a 
favour % — go to the magistrate and recall the 
evidence I have given.' 

" ' Impossible,' said the host. 'What crotchet is 
this % " 



By permission of Messrs. George Eoutledge and Sons. 



MY UNCLE ROLAND'S TALE. 



127 



" The guest shuddered. Teste ! ' said he : ' I 
do not wish in my old age to be hard on others. 
Who knows how the robber may have been 
tempted, and who knows what relations he may 
have — honest men, whom his crime would degrade 
for ever ! Good heavens ! if detected it is the 
galleys, the galleys ! ' 

" ' And what then 1 — the robber knew what he 
braved.' 

"'But did his father know if?' cried the 
guest. 

" A light broke upon my unhappy comrade in 
arms : he caught his friend by the hand — ' You 
turned pale at my son's sight — where did you ever 
see him before "? ' Speak ! ' 

" ' Last night, on the road to Paris. The mask 
slipped aside. Call back my evidence ! ' 

" ' You are mistaken,' said my friend calmly. 
' I saw my son in his bed, and blessed him, before 
I went to my own.' 

" ' I will believe you,' said the g-uest ; ' and 
never shall my hasty suspicion pass my lips — but 
call back the evidence.' 

" The guest returned to Paris before dusk. The 
father conversed with his son on the subject of 
his studies ; he followed him to his room, waited 
till he was in bed, and was then about to retire, 
' when the youth said, ' Father, you have forgotten 
your blessing.' 

" The father went back, laid his hand on the 
boy's head and prayed. He was credulous — 
fathers are so ! He was persuaded that his friend 
had been deceived. He retired to rest, and fell 
asleep. He woke suddenly in the middle of the 
night, and felt (I here quote his words) — ' I felt,' 
said he, ' as if a voice had awakened me — a voice 
that said "Rise and search." I rose at once, 
struck a light, and went to my son's room. The 
door was locked. I knocked once, twice, thrice, — 
no answer. I dared not call aloud, lest I should 
rouse the servants. I went down the stairs — I 
opened the back-door — I passed to the stables. 
My own horse was there, 7iot my son's. My horse 
neighed ; it was old, like myself — my old charger 
at Mont St. Jean. I stole back, I crept into the 
shadow of the wall by my son's door, and ex- 
tinguished my light. I felt as if I were a thief 
myself." 

" Brother," interrupted my mother under her 
breath, " speak in your own words, not in this 
vn-etched father's. I know not why, but it would 
shock me less." 

The Captain nodded. 

" Before daybreak, my friend heard the back- 
door open gently ; a foot ascended the stair — a 
key grated in the door of the room close at hand 
—the father glided through the dark into that 
chamber behind his unseen son. 

" He heard the clink of the tinder-box ; a light 



was struck ; it spread over the room, but he had 
time to place himseK behind the window-curtain 
which was close at hand. The figure before him 
stood a moment or so motionless, and seemed to 
listen, for it turned to the right, to the left, its 
visage covered with the black hideous mask which 
is worn in carnivals. Slowly the mask was 
removed ; could that be his son's face f the son 
of a brave man^ — it was pale and ghastly "with 
scoundrel fears ; the base drops stood on the 
brow ; the eye was haggard and bloodshot. He 
looked as a coward looks when death stands 
before him. 

" The youth walked, or rather skulked, to the 
secretaire, unlocked it, opened a secret drawer ; 
placed within it the contents of his pockets 
and his frightful mask : the father approached 
softly, looked over his shoulder, and saw in the 
drawer the pocket-book embroidered with his 
friend's name. Meanwhile, the son took out his 
pistols, uncocked them cautiously, and was 
about also to secrete them when his . father 
arrested his arm. 'Robber, the use of these is 
yet to come ! ' 

" The son's knees knocked together, an exclama- 
tion for mercy burst from his lips ; but when, 
recovering the mere shock of his dastard nerves, 
he perceived it was not the grip of some hireling 
of the law, but a father's hand that had clutched 
his arm, the vile audacity which knows fear only 
from a bodily cause, none from the awe of shame, 
returned to him. 

" ' Tush, sir,' he said, ' waste not time iu 
reproaches, for, I fear, the c/eiis-d'armes are on my 
track. It is well that you are here ; you can 
swear that I . have spent the night at home. 
Unhand me, old man — I have these witnesses still 
to secrete,' and he pointed to the garments wet 
and bedabbled with the mud of the roads. He 
had scarcely spoken when the walls shook ; there 
was the heavy clatter of hoofs on the ringing pave- 
ment without. 

'"They come!' cried the son. 'Off, dotard! 
save your son from the galleys.' 

" ' The galleys, the galleys ! ' said the father, 
staggering back ; 'it is true '■ — he said — ' the 
galleys.' " 

" There was a loud knocking at the gate. The 
gens-d'armes surrounded the house. ' Open, in 
the name of the law.' No answer came, no door 
was opened. Some of the gens-d'armes rode to the 
rear of the house, in which was placed the stable- 
yard. From the window of the son's room, the 
father saw the sudden blaze of torches, the 
shadowy form of the men-hunters. He heard the 
clatter of arms as they swung themselves from 
their horses. He heard a voice cry, ' Yes,' this is 
the robber's grey horse — see, it still reeks with 
sweat ! ' And behind and in front, at either dooi; 



128 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



again came tlie knocking, and again the shout, 
' Open, in the name of the law.' 

" Then lights began to gleam from the casements 
of the neighbouring houses ; then the space 
filled rapidly with curious wonderers startled 
from their sleep ; the world was astir, and the 
crowd came round to know what crime or what 
shame had entered the old soldier's home. 

" Suddenly, within, there was heard the re- 
port of a fire-arm ; and a minute or so after- 
wards the front door was opened, and the soldier 
.ip|.i.,.in.il. 



the deep scar on his visage, and the cross of the 
Legion of Honour on his breast ; and when he 
had told his tale, he ended with these words — 
' I have saved the son whom I reared for France 
from a doom that would have spared the life 
to brand it mth disgrace. Is this a crime 1 I 
give you my life in exchange for my son's dis- 
grace. Does my country need a victim 1 I 
have lived for my country's glory, and I can 
die contented to satisfy its laws ; sure that, if 
you blame me,- you will not despise ; sure that 
the hands that give me to the headsman wiU 




' The father approached soptlt." (Draaji b-j W. H. Overend. 



"'Enter,' he said to the gens-cVarraes : 'what 
would you 1 ' 

" ' We seek a robber who is within your walls.' 

" ' I know it ; mount and find him : I will lead 
the way.' 

" He ascended the stairs, he threw open_his son's 
voom ; the oflicers of justice poured in, and on the 
tioor lay the robber's corpse. 

"They looked at each other in amazement. 
'Take what is left you,' said the father. 'Take 
the dead man rescued from the galleys ; take the 
living man on whose hands rests the dead man's 
blood ! ' 

" I was present at my friend's trial. The facts 
had become known beforehand. He stood there 
with his grey hair, and his mutilated limbs, and 



scatter flowers over my grave. Thus I confess 
all. I, a soldier, look round among a nation of 
soldiers ; and in the name of the star which 
gHtters on my breast, I dare the Fathers of 
France to condemn me ! ' 

" They acquitted the soldier — at least thej' gave 
a verdict answering to what in our courts is 
called 'justifiable homicide.' A shout rose in the 
court which no ceremonial voice could still ; the 
crowd would have borne him in triumph to his 
house, but his look repelled such vanities. To 
his hoiTse he returned indeed, and the day after- 
wards they found him dead, beside the cradle in 
which his first prayer had been breathed over his 
sinless child. Now, father and son, I ask you, do 
you condemn that man ? " 




THE TRIAJi. (Brawn by W. H. Overend.) 



•Mr UNCLE ROLANDS TALE" {p. 128). 



BEVIS AT HOME 



129 




BEVIS AT HOME. 

[Frum "Wood Maaic." By Eichaud Jeffeeies.] 



O sooner was 
Bevis released 
from the dinner- 
table, than he 
was down on his 
knees at his own 
particular corner 
cupboard, the 
one that had 
been set apart 
for his toys and 
things ever since 
he could walk. 
It was but a 
small cupboard, 
made across the angle of two walls, and with one 
shelf only, yet it was bottomless, and always con- 
tained something new. 

There were the last fragments of the great box 
of wooden bricks, cut and chipped, and notched 
and splintered by that treasure, his pocket-knife. 
There was the tin box for the paste, or the worms 
in moss, when he went fishing. There was the 
wheel of his old wheelbarrow, long since smashed 
and numbered -ndth the Noah's arks that have gone 
the usual way. There was the brazen cylinder of 
a miniature steam-engine bent out of all shape. 
There was the hammer-head made specially for him 
by the blacksmith down in the village, without a 
handle, for people were tired of putting new 
handles to it, he broke them so quickly. There 
was a horse-shoe, and the iron catch of a gate, and 
besides these a boxwood top, which he could not 
spin, but which he had paid away half the savings 
in his money-box for, because he had seen it split 
the other boys' tops in the road. 

In one corner was a brass cannon, the touch-hole 
blackened by the explosion of gunpowder, and by 
it the lock of an ancient pistol — the lock only, 
and neither barrel nor handle. An old hunting 
crop, some feathers from pheasants' tails, part 
of a mole-trap, an old brazen bugle, much bat- 
tered, a wooden fig-box full of rusty nails, several 
scraps of deal board, and stumps of cedar pencil 
were heaped together in confusion. But these 
were not all, nor could any written inventory 
exhaust the contents, and give a perfect list of all 
that cupboard held. There was always something 
new in it : Bevis never went there, but he found 
something. 

With the hunting crop he followed the harriers 
and chased the doubling hare : with the cannon he 
fought battles, such as he saw in the pictures ; the 



bugle, too, sounded the charge (the Bailiff some- 
times blew it in the garden to please him, and the 
hollow " who-oo ! " it made echoed over the fields) ; 
with the deal boards and the rusty nails, and the 
hammer-head, he built houses, and even cities. 
The jagged and splintered wooden bricks, six 
inches long, were not bricks, but great beams and 
baulks of timber ; the wheel of the wheelbarrow 
was the centre of many curious pieces of mecha- 
nism. He could see these things easily. So he 
sat down at his cupboard and forgot the lecture 
instantly ; the pout disappeared from his lips as 
he plunged his hand into the inexhaustible cup- 
board. 

"Bevis, dear," he heard presently, "you may 
have an apple." 

Instantly, and without staying to shut the door 
on his treasures, he darted up stairs — up two 
flights, with a clatter and a bang, burst open the 
door, and was in the apple-room. It was a large 
garret or attic, running half the length of the 
house, and there, in the autumn, the best apples 
from the orchard were carried, and put on a thin 
layer of hay, each apple apart from its fellow (for 
they ought not to touch), and each particular sort, 
the Blenheim Oranges and the King Pippins, the 
Creepers and the Grindstone Pippins (which grew 
nowhere else), divided from the next sort by a little 
fence of hay. 

The most of them were gone now, only a 
few of the keeping apples remained, and from 
these Bevis, with great deliberation, chose the 
biggest, measuring them by the eye and weighing 
them in his hand. Then down-stairs again with 
a clatter and a bang, dovni the second stairs this 
time, past the gun-room, where the tools were 
kept, and a carpenter's bench ; then through 
the whole length of the ground floor from the 
kitchen to the parlour, slamming every door 
behind him, and kicking over the chairs in front 
of him. 

There he stayed half a minute to look at the 
hornet's nest under the glass case on the mantel- 
piece. The comb was built round a central pillar 
or column, three storeys one above the other, and it 
had been taken from the wiUow tree by the brook, 
the huge hollow willow which he had twice tried 
to chop down, that he might make a boat of it. 
Then out of doors and up the yard, and past the 
cart-house, when something moved in the long 
grass under the wall. It was a Weasel, caught in 
agin. 

The trap had been set by the side of a drain for 



130 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



rats, and the Weasel coming out, or perhaps 
frightened by footsteps, and hastening carelessly, 
had been trapped. Bevis, biting his apple, looked 
at the Weasel, and the Weasel said, " Sir Bevis, 
please let me out, this gin hurts me so ; the 
teeth are very sharp and the spring is very 
strong, and the tar-cord is very stout, so that I 
cannot break it. See how the iron has skinned 
my leg and taken off the fur ; and I am in such 
pain. Do please let me go, before the ploughboy 
comes, or he will hit me with a stick, or smash me 
with a stone, or put his iron-shod heel on me ; and 
I have been a very good weasel, Bevis. ' I have 
been catching the horrid rats that eat the barley- 
meal put for the pigs. Oh, let me out, the gin 
hurts me so ! " 

Bevis put his foot on the spring, and was 
pressing it down, and the Weasel thought he was 
already free, and looked across at the wood pile 
under which he meant to hide, when Bevis heard 
a little squeak close to his head, and looked up 
and saw a Mouse under the eaves of the cart- 
house, peeping forth from a tiny crevice, where the 
mortar had fallen from between the stones of the 
wall. 

" Bevis, Bevis ! " said the Mouse, " don't you do 
it— don't you let that Weasel go ! He is a most 
dreadful wicked weasel, and his teeth are ever so 
much sharper than that gin. He does not kill the 
rats, because he is afraid of them (unless he can 
assassinate one in his sleep), but he murdered my 
wife and sucked her blood, and her body, all dry 
and withered, is up in the beam there, if you will 
get a ladder and look. And he killed all my little 
mouses, and made me very unhappy, and I shall 
never be able to get another wife to live with me 
in this cart-house while he is about. There is no 
way we can get away from him. If we go out 
into the field he follows us there, and if we go into 
the sheds he comes after us there, and he is a cruel 
beast, that wicked weasel. You know you ate the 
partridge's eggs," added the Mouse, speaking to the 
Weasel. 

" It is all false," said the Weasel. " But it is 
true that you ate the wheat out of the ears in the 
wheat-rick, and you know what was the conse- 
quence. If that little bit of wheat you ate had been 
threshed, and ground, and baked, and made into 
bread, then that poor girl would have had a crust to 
eat, and would not have jumped into the river, and 
she would have had a son, and he would have been 
a great man and fought battles, just as Bevis does 
with his brazen cannon, and won great victories, 
and been the pride of all the nation. But you ate 
those particular grains of wheat that were meant 
to do all this, you wicked little mouse. Besides 
which, you ran across the bed one night, and 
frightened Bevis's mother." 

" But I did not mean to," said the Mouse ; " and 



you did mean to kill my wife, and you ate the par- 
tridge's eggs." 

" And a very good thing I did," said the Weasel. 
" Do you know what would have happened, if I had 
not taken them ? I did it aU for good, and with 
the best intentions. For if I had left the eggs one 
more day, there was a man who meant to have 
stolen them all but one, which he meant to have 
left to deceive the keeper. If he had stolen them, 
he would have been caught, for the keeper was 
watching for him all the time, and he would have 
been put to prison, and his children would have 
been hungry. So I ate the eggs, and especially I 
ate every bit of the one the man meant to have 
left." 

"And why were you ;_o particular about eating 
that egg 1 " asked Bevis. 

"Because," said the Weasel, "if that egg had 
come to a partridge chick, and the chick had lived 
till the shooting-time came, then the sportsman 
and his brother, when they came I'ormd, would 
have started it out of the stubble, and the shot 
from the gun of the younger would have acci- 
dentally killed the elder, and people would have 
thought it was done to murder him for the sake 
of the inheritance." 

" Now, is this true ? " said Bevis. 

" Yes, that it is ; and I killed the mouse's wife 
also for the best of reasons." 

" You horrid wretch ! " cried the Mouse. 

" Oh, you needn't call me a wretch," said the 
Weasel ; " I am sure you ought to be grateful to 
me, for your wife was very jealous because you 
paid so much attention to the Miss Mouse you 
want to marry now, and in the night she meant to 
have gnawn your throat." 

" And you frightened my mother," said Bevis. 
"by running across her bed in the night;" and 
he began to press on the spiing of the gin. 

" Yes, that he did," .said the Weasel, overjoyed ; 
" and he made a hole in the boards of the floor, 
and it was down that hole that the half-sovereign 
rolled and was lost, and the poor maid-servant 
sent away becau.se they thought she had stolen 
it." 

" What do you say to that 1 " asked Bevis. 

But the Mouse was quite aghast and dumb- 
founded, and began to think that it was he after 
all who was in the wrong, so that for the moment 
he could not speak. Just then Bevis caught sight 
of the colt that had ccme up beside his mother, 
the cart mare, to the fence ; and thinking that he 
would go and try and stroke the pretty creature, 
Bevis started forward, forgetting all about the 
Weasel and the Mouse. As he started, he pressed 
the spring down, and in an instant the Weasel was 
out, and had hobbled across to the wood pile. 
When the Mouse saw this, he gave a little squeak 
of terror, and ran back to his hiding-place. 



POOR MISS FINCH. 



131 




POOR MISS FINCH. 

[By WiLKiE Collins.] 



WELL-FED boy, witli yellow Saxon 
Lair ; a little shabby green chaise ; and 
a rough brown pony — these objects 
confronted me at the Lewes Station. I 
,^[~ said to the boy, " Areyoii Reverend Finch's 
it servant?" And the boy answered, "I be' 



he." 



"We drove through the town — a hilly town of 
desolate clean houses. No living creatures visible 
behind the jealously-shut windows. No living- 
creatures entering or departing through the sad- 
coloiu'ed closed doors. No theatre ; no place of 
amusement except an empty town-hall, vrith a sad 
policeman meditating on its spruce white steps. 
No customers in the shops, and nobody to serve 
them behind the counter, even if they had turned 
up. Here and there on the pavements, an inhabi- 
tant with a capacity for staring, and (apparently) 
a capacity for nothing else. I said to Reverend 
Finch's boy, " Is this a rich place '? " Reverend 
Finch's boy brightened and answered, " That it 
be ! " Good. At any rate, they don't enjoy them- 
selves here, the infamous rich ! 

Leaving this town of unamused citizens immured 
in domestic tombs, we got on a fine high road — still 
ascending — with a spacious open country on either 
side of it. 

A spacious open country is a country soon ex- 
hausted by a sight-seer's eye. I have learnt from 
my poor Pratolungo the habit of searching for the 
political convictions of my feUow-creatures, when 
I find myself in contact with them in strange 
places. Having nothing else to do, I searched 
Finch's boy. His political programme, I found to 
be : — As much meat and beer as I can contain, 
and as little work to do for it as possible. In 
return for this, to touch my hat when I meet the 
Squire, and to be content with the station to which 
it has pleased God to call me. Miserable Finch's 
boy ! 

We reached the highest point of the road. On 
our right hand, the ground sloped away gently 
into a fertile valley, with a village and a church in 
it ; and beyond, an abominable privileged enclosure 
of grass and trees torn from the community by a 
tyrant, and called a Park ; with the palace in 
which this enemy of mankind caroused and 
fattened, standing in the midst. On our left ! 
hand spread the open country — a magnificent 
prospect of grand grassy hills, rolling away to the 
horizon, bounded only by the sky. To my sur- 
prise Finch's boy descended ; took the pony by 
the head ; and deliberately led him ofl^ the high 
road, and on to the v/ilderness of grassy hills, on 



which not so much as a footpath was discernible 
anywhere, far or near. The chaise began to heave 
and roll like a ship on the sea. It became 
necessary to hold with both hands to keep my 
place. I thought first of my luggage — then of 
myself. 

" How much is there of this 1 " I asked. 

" Three mile on't," answered Finch's boy. 

I insisted on stopping the ship— I mean the 
chaise — and on getting out. We tied my luggage 
fast with a rope; and then we went on again, 
the boy at the pony's head and I after them on 
foot. 

Ah, what a walk it was ! What air over my 
head ; what grass under mj- feet ! The sweetness 
of the inner land, and the crisp saltuess of the 
distant sea, were mixed in that delicious breeze. 
The short turf, fragrant -n-ith odorous herbs, rose 
and fell elastic, imderfoot. The mountain-piles of 
white cloud moved in sublime procession along the 
blue field of heaven overhead. The wild growth 
of prickly bushes, spread in great patches over the 
grass, was in a glory of yellow bloom. On we 
went _: now up, now down ; now bending to the 
right, and now turning to the left. I looked 
about me. No house ; no road ; no paths, fences, 
hedges, walls ; no land-marks of any sort. All 
round us, turn which way we might, nothing was 
to be seen but the majestic solitude of the hiUs. 
No living creatures appeared but the white dots 
of sheep scattered over the soft green distance, 
and the skylark singing Ms hjonn of happiness, a 
speck above my head. Truly a wonderful place ! 
Distant not more than a morning's drive from 
noisy and populous Brighton — a stranger to this 
neighbourhood could only have found his way by 
the compass, exactly as if he had been sailing on 
the sea ! The farther we penetrated on our land 
voyage, the more wild and the more beautiful the 
solitary landscape grew. The boy picked his way 
as he chose — there were no barriers here. Plod- 
ding behind, I saw nothing, at one time, but the 
back of the chaise, tilted up in the air, both pony 
and boy being invisibly buried in the steep descent 
of the hiU. At other times, the pitch was all the 
contrary way ; the whole interior of the ascending 
chaise was disclosed to my view, and above the 
chaise the pony, and above the pony the boy — 
and, ah, my luggage swaying and rocking in the 
frail embraces of the rope that held it. Twenty 
times did I confidently expect to see baggage, 
chaise, pony, boy, all rolling down into the bottom 
of a valley together. But no ! Not the least 
little accident happened to spoil my enjoyment of 



132 



GLEANmGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



the day. Politically contemptible, Finch's boy had 
his merit — he was master of his subject as guide 
and pony-leader among the South Down Hills. 

Arrived at the top of (as it seemed to me) our 
fiftieth grassy summit, I began to look about for 
signs of the village. 

Behind me, rolled back the long undulations of 
the hills, with the cloud-shadows moving over the 
solitudes that we had left. Before me, at a break 
in the purple distance, I saw the soft white line of 
the sea. Beneath me, at my feet, opened the 
deepest valley I had noticed yet— with one first 
sign of the presence of Man scored hideously on 
the face of Nature, in the shape of a square brown 
patch of cleared and ploughed land on the grassy 
slope. I asked if we were getting near the village 
now. Finch's boy winked, and answered " Yes, 
we be." 

Astonishing Finch's boy ! Ask him what ques- 
tions I might, the resources of his vocabulary 
remained invariably the same. Still this youthful 
Oracle answered always in three monosyllabic 
words ! 

We plunged into the valley. 

Arrived at the bottom, I discovered another sign 
of Man. Behold the first road I had seen yet — a 
rough waggon-road ploughed deep in the chalky 
soil ! We crossed this, and turned a corner of a 
hill. More signs of human life. Two small boys 
started up out of a dry ditch — apparently set as 
scouts to give notice of our approach. They yelled, 
and set off running before us, by some short cut, 
known only to themselves We turned again, 
round another winding of the valley, and crossed a 
brook. I considered it my duty to make myself 
acquainted with the local names. What was the 
brook called? It was called "The Cockshoot?" 
And the great hill, here, on my right 1 " It was 
called " The Overblow! " Five minutes more, and 
we saw our first house — lonely and little — buUt 
of mortar and flint from the hills. A name to 
this also 1 Certainly ! Name of " Browndown." 
Another ten minutes of walking involving us more 
and more deeply in the mysterious green windings 
of the valley — and the greatest event of the day 
happened at last. Finch's boy pointed before 
him with his whip, and said (even, at this supreme 
moment, still in three monosyllabic words) : — 

" Here we be ! " 

So this is Dimchurch ! I shake out the chalk- 
dust from the skirts of my dress. I long (quite 
vainly) for the least bit of looking-glass to see 
myself in. Here is the population (to the number 
of at least five or six), gathered together, informed 
by the scouts — and it is my woman's business to 
produce the best impression of myself that I can. 
We advance along the little road. I smile upon 
the population. The population stares at me in 
return. On one side, I remark three or four 



cottages, and a bit of open ground ; also au inn 
named " The Cross-Hands," and a bit more of 
open ground ; also a tiny, tiny butcher's-shop, 
with sanguinary insides of sheep on one blue pie- 
dish in the window, and no other meat than that, 
and nothing to see beyond, but again the open 
ground, and again the hills ; indicating the end of 
the village on this side. On the other side there 
appears, for some distance, nothing but a long 
flint wall guarding the outhouses of a farm. Be- 
yond this, comes another little group of cottages, 
with the seal of civilisation set on them, in the 
form of a post-ofiice. The post-office deals in 
general commodities — in boots and bacon, biscuits 
and flannel, crinoline petticoats and religious 
tracts. Farther on, behold another flint wall, a 
garden, and a private dwelling-house, proclaiming 
itself as the rectory. Farther yet, on rising 
ground, a little desolate church, with a tiny white 
circular steeple, topped by an extinguisher in red 
tiles. Beyond this, the hills and the heavens once 
more. And there is Dimchurch ! 

As for the inhabitants — what am I to say 1 I 
suppose I must tell the truth. 

I remarked one born gentleman among the 
inhabitants, and he was a sheep-dog. He alone 
did the honours of the place. He had a stump 
of a tail which he wagged at me with extreme 
difficulty, and a good honest white and black face 
which he poked companionably into my hartd. 
" Welcome, Madame Pratolungo, to Dimchurch ; 
and excuse these male and female labourers who 
stand and stare at you. The good God who makes 
us all has made them too, but has not succeeded 
so well as with you and me." I happen to be one 
of the few people who can read dogs' language as 
written in dogs' faces. I correctly report the 
language of tlie gentleman-sheep-dog on this 
occasion. 

We opened the gate of the rectory, and passed 
in. So my Land-voyage over the South Down 
Hills came prosperously to its end. 

The rectory resembled, in one respect, this narra- 
tive that I am now writing. It was in Two Parts. 
Part the First, in front, composed of the everlast- 
ing flint and mortar of the neighbourhood, failed 
to interest me. Part the Second, running back at 
a right angle, asserted itself as ancient. It had 
been in its time, as I afterwards heard, a convent 
of nuns. Here, were snug little Gothic windows, 
and dark ivy-covered walls of venerable stone ; 
repaired in places, at some past period, with quaint 
red bricks. I had hoped that I should enter the 
house by this side of it. But no. The boy — after 
appearing to be at a loss what to do with me — led 
the way to a door on the modern side of the 
building, and rang the bell. 

A slovenly young maid-servant admitted me to 
the house. 



POOR MISS FINCH. 



133 



Possibly, tliis person was new to the duty of 
receiving visitors. Possibly, she was bewildered 
by a sudden invasion of children in dirty frocks, 
darting out on us in the hall, and then darting 
back again into invisible back regions, screeching 
at the sight of a stranger. At any rate, she too 
appeared to be at a loss what to do with me. After 
staring hard at my foreign face, she suddenly 
opened a door in the wall of the passage, and ad- 
mitted me into a small room. Two more children 
in dirty frocks darted, screaming, out of the 



up the stairs— one of them in possession of my 
card, and waving it in triumph on the first landing. 
We penetrated to the other end of the passage. 
Again a door was opened. Unannounced, I en- 
tered another and a larger room. What did I see 1 

Fortune had favoured me at last. My lucky 
star had led me to the mistress of the house. 

I made my best curtsey, and found myself con- 
fronting a large, light-haired, languid, lymphatic 
lady, who had evidently been amusing herself by 
walking up and down the room at the moment 




"New to the duty of receiving visiTor.s. 



asylum thus offered to me. I mentioned my name, 
as soon as I could make myself heard. The maid 
appeared to be terrified at the length of it. I gave 
her my card. The maid took it between a dirty 
finger and thumb — looked at it as if it was some 
extraordinary natural curiosity — turned it round, 
exhibiting correct black impressions in various 
parts of it of her finger and thumb— gave up un- 
derstanding it in despair, and left the room. She 
was stopped outside (as I gathered from the sounds) 
by a returning invasion of children in the hall. 
There was whispering; there was giggling; there 
was, every now and then, a loud thump on the door. 
Prompted by the children, as I suppose— pushed in 
by them certainly— the maid suddenly reappeared 
with a jerk. " Oh, if you please, come this way," 
she said. The invasion of children retreated again 



when I appeared. If there can be such a thing as 
a dam}) woman — this was one. There was a 
humid shine on her colourless white face, and an 
overflow of water in her pale blue eyes. Her 
hair was not dressed ; and her lace cap was all on 
one side. The upper part of her was clothed in a 
loose jacket of blue merino ; the lower part was 
robed in a dimity dressing-gown of doubtful 
white. In one hand she held a dirty dog's-eared 
book, which I at once detected to be a Circulating- 
Library novel. Her other hand supported a baby 
enveloped in flannel, sucking at her breast. Such 
was my first experience of Keverend Finch's 
Wife — destined to be also the experience of ail 
after-time. Never completely dressed ; never 
completely dry ; always with a baby in one hand 
and a novel in the other — such was Finch's wife ! 



134 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



"Oil? Madame Pratolungo ? Yes. I hope some- 
body has told Miss Finch you are here. She has 
her own establishment, and manages everything 
herself. Have you had a pleasant journey ^ " 
(These words were spoken vacantly, as if her 
mind was occupied with something else. My first 
impression of her suggested that she was a weak, 
good-natured woman, and that she must have 
originally occupied a station in the humbler ranks 
of life.) 

" Thank you, Mrs. Finch," I said. " I have 
enjoyed most heartily my journey among your 
beautiful hills." 

" Oh 1 you like the hills 1 Excuse my dress. I 
was half an hour late this morning. When you 
lose half an hour in this house, you never can 
pick it up again, try how you may." (I soon 
discovered that Mrs. Finch was always losing half 
an hour out of her day, and that she never, by any 
chance, succeeded in finding it again, as she had 
just told me.) 

" I understand, madam. The cares of a niunerous 
family " 

"Ah! that's just where it is." (This was a favourite 
phrase of ilrs. Finch.) " There's Finch, he gets up 
in the morning and goes and works in the garden. 
Then there's the washing of the children ; and the 
dreadful waste that goes on in the kitchen. And 
Fincli, he comes in without any notice, and wants 
his breakfast. And of course I can't leave the 
baby. And half an hour does slip away so easily, 
that how to overtake it again, I do assure you I 
really don't know." Here the baby began to 
exhibit .symptoms of having taken more maternal 
nourishment than his infant stomach could 
comfortably contain. I held the novel while 
Mrs. Finch searched for her handkerchief — first 
in her bedgown pocket : secondly, here, there, and 
everywhere in the room. 

At this interesting moment there was a knock 
at the door. An elderly woman appeared, who 
offered a most refreshing contrast to the members 
of the household with whom I had made ac- 
quaintance thus far. She was neatly dressed ; and 
she saluted me with the polite composure of a 
civilised being. 

" I beg your pardon, ma'am, my young lady has 
only this moment heard of your arrival. Will you 
be so kind as to follow me ? " 

I turned to Mrs. Finch. She had found her 
handkerchief, and had put her overflowing baby 
to rights again. I respectfully handed back the 
novel. " Thank you," said Mrs. Finch. " I find 
novels compose my mind. Do you read novels 
too? Eemind me — and I'll lend you this one to- 
morrow." I expressed my acknowledgments, and 
withdrew. At the door, I looked round, saluting 
the lady of the house. Mrs. Finch was pro- 
menading the room, with the baby in one hand 



and the novel in the other, and the dimity bed- 
gown trailing behind her. 

We ascended the stairs, and entered a bare 
white-washed passage, with drab-coloured doors 
in it, leading, as I presumed, into the sleeping 
chambers of the house. 

Every door opened as we passed ; children 
peeped out at me, screamed at me, and banged 
the door to again. " What family has the present 
Mrs. Finch?" I asked. The decent elderly woman 
was obliged to stop and consider. " Including 
the baby, ma'am, and two sets of twins, and one 
seven months' child of deficient intellect — fourteen 
in all." Hearing this, I began — though I consider 
priests, kings, and capitalists to be the enemies of 
the human race — to feel a certain exceptional 
interest in Reverend Finch. Did he never wish 
that he had been a priest of the Romaii Catholic 
Church, mercifully forbidden to iiYrirry at all ? 
While the question passed through my mind, my 
guide took out a key, and opened a heavy oaken 
door at the further end of the passage. 

" We are obliged to keep the door locked, 
ma'am," she exclaimed, " or the children would be 
in and out of our part of the house all day long." 

After my experience of the children, I own I 
looked at the oaken door with mingled sentiments 
of gratitude and respect. 

We turned a corner, and found ourselves in the 
vaulted corridor of the ancient portion of the 
house. 

The casement windows, on one side — sunk deeji 
in recesses — looked into the garden. Each rec;ss 
was filled vsdth groups of flowers in pots. On the 
other side, the old wall was gaily decorated with 
hangings of bright chintz. The doors were 
coloured of a creamy white, with gilt mouldings. 
The brightty ornamented matting under our feet 
I at once recognised as of South American origin. 
The ceiling above was de: orated in delicate pale 
blue, with borderings of flowers. Nowhere down 
the whole extent of the place was so much as a 
single morsel of dark colour to be seen anyvi'here. 

At the lower end of the corridor, a solitary 
figure in a pure white robe was bending over the 
flowers in the window. This was the blind girl 
whose dark hours I had come to cheer. In the 
scattered villages of the South Downs, the simple 
people added their word of pity to her name, and 
called her compassionately "Poor Miss FincL" 
As for me, I can only think of her by her 
pretty Christian name. She is " LuciUa " when 
my memory dwells on her. Let me call her 
" LuciUa " here. 

When my eyes first rested on her, she was 
picking off the dead leaves from her flowers. Her 
delicate ear detected the st)und of my strange 
footstep long before I reached the place at v/hich 
she was standing. She lifted her head — and 



POUR MISS FINCH. 



135 



advanced quickly to meet me with a faint flush 
ou lier face which came and died away again in a 
moment. I happened to have visited the picture 
gallery at Dresden in former years. As she 
ai)proached me, nearer and nearer, I was irre- 
sistibly reminded of the gem of that superb 
collection — the matchless virgin of Kaphael, called 
" The iladonna di San Sisto." The fair broad 
forehead ; the peculiar fulness of the flesh between 
the eyebrow and the eyelid ; the delicate outline of 
the lower face ; the tender; sensitive lips ; the 
colour of the complexion and the hair — all 
reflected, with a startling fidelity, the lovely 
creature of the Dresden picture. The one fatal 
point at which the resemblance ceased was in the 
eyes. The divinely-beautiful eyes of Raphael's 
Virgin were lost in the living likeness of her that 
confronted me now. There was no deformity, 
there was nothing to recoil from, in my blind 
Lucilla. The poor, dim, sightless eyes had a 
faded, changele.ss, inexpressive look — and that 
was all. Above them, below them, round them to 
the very edges of her eyelids, there was beauty, 
movement, life. In them— death ! A more 
charming creature — with that one sad drawback — 
I never saw. There was no other personal defect in 
her. She had the line height, the well-balanced 
figure, and the length of the lower limbs, which 
make all a woman's movements graceful of them- 
selves. Her voice was delicious — clear, cheerful, 
.-iympathetic. This, and her smile — which added 
a charm of its own to the beauty of her mouth — 
won my heart, before she had got close enough to 
me to put her hand in mine. " Ah, my dear ! " I 
.said, in my headlong way, " I am so glad to see 
you !" The instant the words passed my lips, I 
could have cut my tongue out for reminding her 
in that brutal manner that she was blind. 

To my relief, she showed no sign of feeling it as 
I did. " May I see you in niij way % " she asked 
gently — and held up her pretty white hand. " May 
I touch your face '? " 

I sat down at once on the window-seat. The 
.soft rosy tips of her fingers seemed to cover my 
whole face in an instant. Three separate times 
.she passed her hand rapidly over me, her own 
face absorbed all the while in breathless attention 
to what she was about. " Speak again ! " she said 
.suddenly, holding her hand over me, in suspense. 
I said a few words. She stopped me by a kiss. 
" No more ! " she exclaimed joyously. " Your 
voice says to my ears what your face says to my 
fingers. I know I shall like you. Come in, and 
-see the rooms we a-e going to live in together." 

As I rose, she put her arm round my waist — 
then instantly drew it away again, and shook her 
fingers impatiently as if something had hurt 
them. 

"ApinV' I asked. 



" No ! no ! What coloured dress have you got 
on?" 

" Puride." 

" Ah ! I knew it ! Pray don't wear dark colours. 
I have my own blind horror of anything that is 
dark. Dear Madame Pratolungo, wear pretty 
bright colours, to please me ! " She put her arm 
caressingly round me again— round my neck, how- 
ever, this time, where her hand could rest on my 
linen collar. " You will change your dress before 
dinner— won't youl" she whi.spered. "Let me 
unpack for you, and choose which dress I like." 

The brilliant decorations of the corridor were 
explained to me now ! 

We entered the rooms ; her bed-room, my bed- 
room, and our sitting-room between the two. I 
was prepared to find them — what they proved to be 
— as bright as looking-glasses, and gilding, and 
gaily-coloured ornaments, and cheerful knick- 
knacks of all sorts could make them. They were 
more like rooms in my lively native country than 
rooms in sober colourless England. The onf 
thing which, I own, did still astonish me, was thai 
all this sparkling beauty of adornment in Lucilla's 
habitation should have been provided for the 
express gratification •{ a young lady who could 
not see. Experience was yet to show me that the 
blind can live in their imaginations, and have their 
favourite fancies and illusions like the rest of us. 

To satisfy Lucilla by changing my dark purple 
dress, it was necessary that I should first have 
my boxes. So far as I knew, Finch's boy had 
taken my luggage, along with the pony, to the 
stables. Before Lucilla could ring the bell to 
make inciuiries, my elderly guide (who had 
silently left us while we were talking together in 
the corridor) reappeared, followed by a boy and a 
groom, carrying my things. These servants also 
brought with them certain parcels for their young 
mistress, purchased in the town, together with a 
bottle, wrapped in fair white paper, which looked 
like a bottle of medicine — and which had a part of 
its own to play in our proceedings later in the 
day. 

" This is my old nurse," said Lucilla, presenting 
her attendant to me. '' Zillah can do a little of 
everything — cooking included. She has had 
lessons at a London Club. You must like Zillah, 
Madame Pratolungo, for my sake. Aie your 
boxes open 1 " 

She went down on her knees before the boxes ' 
as she asked the question. No girl with the fuU 
use of her eyes could have enjoyed more thoroughly 
than she did the trivial amusement of unpacking 
my clothes. This time, however, her wonderful 
delicacy of touch proved to be at fault. Of two 
dresses of mine which happened to be exactly the 
same in texture, though widely different in colour, 
she picked out the dark dress as being the lighf 



136 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



one. I saw that I disappointed liei- sadly when I 
told her of her mistake. The next guess she made, 
however, restored the tips of her fingers to their 
place in her estimation : she discovered the stripes 
in a smart pair of stockings of mine, and 
brightened up directly. " Don't be long dressing," 
she said, on leavijig me. " We shall have dinner 
in half an hour. French dishes, in honour of 



your arrival. I like a nice dinner — I am what you 
call in your country gourmande. See the sad 
consequence ! " She put one finger to her pretty 
chin. " I am getting fat ; I am threatened with 
a double chin — at two-and twenty. Shocking ! 
shocking ! " 

So she left me. And such was the first impres- 
sion produced on my mind by "Poor Miss Finch." 



CAPTAIN EEECB. 



[By W. S. Gilbert.] 



^F all the ships upon the blue. 
No ship contained a better crew 
^^■^*^^^Tlian that of worthy Captain Reece, 
Commanding of The Mantelpiece. 

He was adored by all his men, 
For worthy Captain Reece, R.N., 
Did aU that lay within him to 
Promote the comfort of his crew. 

If ever they were dull or sad 
Their captain danced to them like mad, 
Or told, to make the time pass by. 
Droll legends of his infancy. 

A feather bed had every man. 
Warm slippers and hot-water can, 
Brown Windsor from the captain's store, 
A valet, too, to every four. 



Then currant wine and ginger pops. 
Stood handily on all the "tops," 
And also, with amusement rife, 
A " Zoetrope, or Wheel of Life." 

New volumes came across the sea 
From Jlister Mudie's libraree ; 
The Times and Satvrday Revieio 
Beguiled the leisure of the crew. 

Kind-hearted Captain Reece, R.N. 
Was quite devoted to his men ; 
In point of fact, good Captain Reece, 
Beatified The Mantelpiece. 

One summer eve, at half-past ten. 
He said (addressing all his men) : 
" Come, tell me, please, what I can do 
To please and gratify my crew. 




'Their captain danced to them like mad." ij)v^v:'ii\)\i W. RahUt<'.) 



Did they with thirst in summer burn ? 
Lo, seltzogenes at every turn, 
And on all very sultry days 
Cream ices handed round on trays. 



" By any reasonable plan 
I'll make you happy, if I can ; 
My own convenience count as 
It is my duty, and I will." 



7itl ; 



CAPTAIN REECE. 



137 



Then up and answered William Lee, 
(The kindly captain's coxswain he, 
A nervous, shy, low-spoken man) 
He cleared his throat and thus began : 



But what are dukes and viscounts to 
The happiness of all my crew 'i 
The word I gave you I'll fulfil : 
It is my duty, and I will. 




' The captain saw the dame that eat." (Draun hij W. Rohtov.) 



"You have a daughter. Captain Reece, 
Ten female cousins and a niece, 
A ma, if what I'm told is true, 
Six sisters, and an aunt or two.* 

" Now, somehow, sir, it seems to me, 
More friendly-like we all should be, 
If you united of 'em to 
Unmarried members of the crew. 

" If you'd ameliorate our life. 
Let each select from them a wife ; 
And as for nervous me, old pal. 
Give me your own enchanting gal ! " 

Good Captain Reece, that worthy man, 
Debated on his coxswain's plan : 
" I quite agree," he said, " Bill : 
It is my duty, and I will. 

" My daughter, that enchanting gurl, 
Has just been promised to an earl. 
And all my other familee, 
To peers of various degree. 



* There seems little doubt that this poem, first published 
many years ago, provided the author with his scheme for the 
opera entitled H.M.S. Pinafore. The similarity of the incidents 
mil strike all who have seen Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan's 
joint production. 



" As you desire it shall befall, 
I'll settle thousands on you all. 
And I shall be, despite my hoard, 
The only bachelor on board. ' 

The boatswain of The Manteljriece, 
He blushed and spoke to Captain Reece : 
" I beg your honour's leave," he said, 
" If you would wish to go and wed, 

" I have a widowed mother who 
Would be the very thing for you — 
She long has loved you from afar, 
She washes for you. Captain R." 

The captain saw the dame that day — 
Addressed her in his playful way — 
" And did it want a wedding ring'? 
It was a tempting ickle sing ! 

" Well, well, the chaplain I wiU seek, 
We'll all be manied this day week — 
At yonder church upon the hill • 
It is my duty, and I will ! " 

The sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece, 
And widowed ma of Captain Reece 
Attended there as they were bid ; 
It was their duty, and they did. 



138 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



THE TOWEE OF LONDON. 

[By William Hepworth Dixon.] 



I^S/ ALF-A-MILE below London Bridge, on 

l^^jtr ground which was once a bluff, com- 

^^1^ manding the Thames from St. Saviour's 

j^ Creek to St. Olave's Wharf, .stands the 

l& group of building.? known in our common 

T speech as the Tower of London, in official 

1 phrase as Her ^Majesty's Tower ; a mass of 

' ramparts, walls, and gates ; the most ancient 

and most poetic pile in Europe. 

Seen from the hill outside, the Tower appears 
to be white with age and wrinkled by remorse. 
The home of our stoutest kings, the grave of our 
noblest knights, the scene of our gayest revels, 
the field of our darkest crimes, that edifice speaks 
at once to the eye and to the soul. Grey keep, 
green tree, black gate, and frowning battlement, 
stand out, apart from all objects far and near 
them, menacing, picturesque, enchaining ; working 
on the senses like a spell ; and calhng us away 
from our daily mood into a woi-ld of romance, 
like that which we find painted in light and 
shadow on Shakespeare's page. 

Looking at the Tower as either a prison, a 
palace, or a court,— picture, poetry, and drama 
crowd upon the mind; and if the fancy dwells 
most frequently on the state prison, this is 
because the soul is more readily kindled by a 
human interest than fired by an archaic and 
official fact. For one man who would care to see 
the room in which a council met or a court was 
held, a hundred men would like to see the 
chamber in which Lady .Jane Grey was lodged, 
the cell in which Sir Walter Pialeigh wrote, the 
tower from which Sir John Oklcastle escaped. 
Who would not like to stand for a moment by 
those steps on which Ann Boleyn knelt ; pause 
by that slit in the wall through which Ai-thur 
De la Pole gazed ; and linger, if he could, in that 
room in which Cranmer, Latimer, and Ridley 
searched the New Testament together 1 

****** 
Standing on Tower Hill, looking down on the 
dark lines of wall— picking out keep and turret, 
bastion and ballium, chapel and belfry— the jewel- 
house, the armoury, the mounts, the casements, 
the open leads— the Bye-ward Gate, the Belfry, 
the Bloody Tower — the whole edifice seems alive 
with story ; the story of a nation's highest 
splendour, its deepest misery, and its darkest 
shame. The soil beneath your feet is richer in 
blood than many a great battle-field ; for out 
upon this sod has been poured, from generation 
to- generation, a stream of the noblest life in 
our land. Should you have come to this spot 



alone, in the early day, when the Tower is noisy 
with martial doings, you may haply catch, in 
the hum which rises from the ditch and issues 
from the wall below you — broken by roll of drum, 
by blast of bugle, by tramp of soldiers — some 
echoes, as it were, of a far-off time ; some hints 
of a j\Iay-day revel ; of a state execution ; of a 
royal entry. You may catch some sound which 
recalls the thrum of a queen's virginal, the cry of 
a victim on the rack, the laughter of a bridal feast. 
For all these sights and sounds — the dance of love 
and the dance of death — are part of that gay and 
tragic memory which clings around the Tower. 

From the reign of Stephen down to that of 
Henry of Richmond, Caesar's Tower (the great 
Norman keep, now called the White Tower) was a 
main part of the royal palace ; and for that large 
interval of time the story of the White Tower is 
in some sort that of our English society as well 
as of our English kings. Here were kept the 
royal wardrobe and the royal jewels ; and hither 
came with their goodly wares, the tiremen, the 
goldsmiths, the chasers and embroiderers, from 
Flanders, Italy, and Almaigne. Close by were 
the Mint, the lions' dens, the old archery-grounds, 
the Court of King's Bench, the Court of Common 
Pleas, the queen's gardens, the royal banqueting 
hall ; so that art and trade, science and manners, 
literature and law, sport and politics, find them- 
selves equally at home. 

Two great architects designed the main parts 
of the Tower : Gundulf the Weeper and Henry 
the Builder ; one a poor Norman monk, the other 
a great English king. 

Gundulf, a Benedictine friar, had, for that age, 
seen a great deal of the world ; for he had not 
only lived in Rouen and Caen, but had travelled 
in the East. Familiar with the glories of 
Saracenic art, no less than with the Norman 
simplicities of Bee, St. Guen, and St. Etienne ; a 
pupil of Lanfranc, a friend of Anselm ; he had 
been employed in the monastery of Bee to 
marshal, with the eye of an artist, all the pictorial 
ceremonies of his church. But he was chiefly 
known in that convent as a weeper. No monk 
at Bee could cry so often and so much as Gundulf. 
He could weep with those who wept ; nay, he 
could weep with those who sported ; for his tears 
welled forth from what seemed to be an unfailing 
source. 

As the price of his exile from Bee, Gundulf 
received the crozier of Rochester, in which city 
he rebuilt the cathedral, and perhaps designed 
the castle, since the great keep on the Medvvay 



THE TOWER OF LONDON. 



139 



lias a sister's likeness to the great keep on tlie 
Thames. His works in London were — the White 
Tower ; the iirst St. Peter's Church ; and the old 
barbican, afterwards known as the Hall Tower, 
and now used as the jewel-house. 

The cost of these works was great ; the discon- 
tent caused by them was sore. Ralph, Bishop of 
Durham, the able and rapacious minister who had 
to raise the money, was hated and reviled by the 
Commons with peculiar bitterness of heart and 
phrase. He was called Flambard, or Firebrand. 
He was represented as a devouring lion. Still the 
great edifice grew up ; and GunduK, who Uved to 
the age of fourscore, saw his great keep completed 
from basement to battlement. 

Henry the Third, a prince of epical fancies, as 
Corife, Conway, Beaumaris, and many other fine 
poems in stone attest, not only spent much of his 
time in the Tower, but much of his money in 
adding to its strength and beauty. Adam de 
Lamburn was his master mason ; but Henry was 
his own chief clerk of the works. The Water 
Gate, the embanked wharf, the Cradle Tower, the 
Lantern, which he made his bedroom and private 
closet, the Galleyman Tower, and the first wall, 
appear to have been his gifts. But the prince 
who did so much for Westminster Abbey, not 
content with giving stone and piles to the home 
in which he dwelt, enriched the chambers with 
frescoes and sculpture, the chapels with carving 
and glass ; making St. John's Chapel in the 
White Tower splendid with saints, St. Peter's 
Church on the Tower Green musical with bells. 
In the Hall Tower, from which a passage led 
through the great hall into the king's bedroom in 
the Lantern, he built a tiny chapel for his private 
use — a chapel which served for the devotion of 
his successors until Henry the Sixth was stabbed 
to death before the cross. Sparing neither skill 
nor gold to make the great fortress worthy of his 
art, he sent to Purbeck for marble, and to Caen 
for stone. The dabs of lime, the spawls of flint, 
the layers of brick, which deface the walls and 
towers in too many places, are of either earlier or 
later times. The marble shafts, the noble groins, 
the delicate traceries, are Henry's work. Traitor's 
Gate, one of the noblest arches in the world, was 
built by him ; in short, nearly all that is purest 
in art is traceable to his reign. 

Edward the First may be added, at a distance, 
to the list of builders. In his reign the original 
church of St. Peter fell into ruin ; the wrecks 
were carted away, and the present edifice was 
built. The bill of costs for clearing the ground 
is still extant in Fetter Lane. Twelve men, who 
were paid twopence a day wages,, were employed 
on the work for twenty days. The cost of pulling 
down the old chapel was forty-six shillings and 
eightpence ; that of digging foundations for the 



new chapel forty shillings. . That chapel has 
suffered from wardens and lieutenants ; yet the 
shell is of very fine Norman work. 

From the days of Henry the Builder* down to 
those of Henry of Richmond, the Tower, as the 
strongest place in the south of England, was by 
turns the magnificent home and the miserable 
jail of all our princes. Here Richard the Second 
held his court, and gave up his crown. Here 
Henry the Sixth was murdered. Here the Duke 
of Clarence was drowned in wine. Here King 
Edward and the Duke of York were slain by 
the command of Richard. Here Margaret o\ 
Salisbury was hacked into pieces on the block. 

Henry of Richmond kept his royal state in the 
Tower, receiving his ambassadors, counting his 
angels, making presents to his bride, Elizabeth 
of York. Among other gifts to that lady on her 
nuptial day was a royal book of verse, composed 
by a prisoner in the keep. 

Turning through a sally-port in the Bye-ward 
Gate, you cross the south arm of the ditch, and 
come out on the wharf, — a strip of strand in front 
of the fortress won from the river, and kept in its 
place by masonry and piles. This wharf, the 
work of Hemy the Builder, is one of the wonders 
of his reign ; for the whole strip of earth had to 
be seized from the Thames, and covered from 
the daily ravage of its tides. At this bend of 
the river the scour is hard, the roll enormous. 
Piles had to be driven into the mud and silt ; 
rubble had to be thrown in between these piles : 
and then the whole mass united with fronts and 
bars of stone. AH Adam de Lamburn's skill was 
taxed to resist the weight of water, yet keep the 
sluices open by which he fed the ditch. Most of 
all was this the case when the king began to 
build a new barbican athwart the sluice. Thii- 
work, of which the proper name was for many 
ages the Water Gate, commands the only outlet 
from the Tower into the Thames ; spanning the 
ditch and sweeping the wharf, both to the left and 
right. So soon as the wharf was taken from the 
river-bed, this work became essential to the defen- 
sive line. 

London folk felt none of the king's pride in 
the construction of this great wharf and barbican. 
In fact, these works were in the last degree 
unpopular, and on news of any mishap occurring 
to them the Commons went almost mad with joy. 
Once they sent to the king a formal complaint 
against these works. Henry assured his people 
that the wharf and Water Gate would not harm 
their city. Still the citizens felt sore. Then, on 
St. George's night, 1240, while the people were at 
prayer, the Water Gate and wall fell down, no 
man knew why. No doubt the tides were high 

• Henry tlie Third. 



uo 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 




that spring, and the soft silt of the river gave way 
beneath the wash. Anyhow they fell. 

Henry, too great a builder to despair, began 
again ; this time with a better plan ; yet on the 
self-same night of the ensuing year his barbican 
crashed down into the river, one mass of stones. 
A monk of St. Albans, who tells the tale, assei-ts 
that a priest who was passing near the fortress 
saw the spirit of an archbishop, dressed in his 
robes, holding a cross, and attended by the spirit 
of a clerk, gazing sternly on these new works. 
As the priest came up, the figure spake to the 
masons, " Why build ye these t " As he spoke, 
he struck the walls sharply with the holy cross, 
on which they reeled and sank into the river, 
leaving a wreath of smoke behind. The priest 
was too much scared to accost the more potent 
spirit ; but ne turned to the humble clerk, and 



asked him the aichbishop's name "St Thomas 
the Martyr," said the shade. The priest, growing 
bolder, asked him why the Martyr had done this 
deed 1 " St. Thomas," said the spirit, " by birth a 
citizen, dislikes these works, because they are 
raised in scorn and against the public right. For 
this cause he has thrown them down beyond the 
tyrant's power to restore them." 

But the shade was not strong enough to scare 
the king. Twelve thousand marks had been spent 
on that heap of ruins ; yet the barbican being 
necessary to his wharf, the Builder, on the morrow 
of his second mishap, was again at work, clearing 
away the rubbish, driving in the piles, and laying 
in a deeper bed the foundation-stones. This time 
his work was done so well that the walls of his 
gateway have never shrunk, and are as firm to- 
day as the earth on which they stand. 

The ghost informed the priest that the two 
most popular saints in our calendar, the Con- 
fessor and the Martyr, had undertaken to make 
war upon these walls. " Had they been built," 
said the shade, " for the defence of London, and 
in order to find food for masons and joiners, they 



THE TOWEB, OF LONDON. 



141 



might have been borne ; but they are built against | 
the poor citizens ; and if St. Thomas had not 
destroyed them, the Confessor would have swept 
them away." 

The names of these popular saints still cling to 
the Water Gate. One of the rooms, fitted up as 
an oratory, and having a piscina stUl perfect, is 
called the Confessor's Chapel ; and the barbican 
itself, instead of bearing its official name of Water 
Gate, is only known as St. Thomas's Tower. 

The whole wharf, twelve hundred feet in length, 
lay open to the Thames, except a patch of ground 
at the lower end, near the Iron Gate, leading 
towards the hospital of St. Catharine the 
Virgin, where a few sheds and magazines were 
built at an early date. Except these sheds, the 
wharf was clear. When cannon came into use, 
they were laid along the ground, as well as 
trained on the walls and the mural towers. 

Three ascents marked, as it were, the river front 
— the Queen's Stair, the Water Way, and the 
Galleyman Stair. The Queen's Stair, the landing- 
place of royal princes, and of such great jiersons 
as came to the Tower on state affairs, lay beneath 
the Bye-ward Gate and the Belfry, having a 
passage into the fortress by a bridge and postern, 
through the Bye-ward Tower into Water Lane. 
The Water Way was that cutting through ,the 
bank which passed vmder St. Thomas's Tower 
to the flight of steps in Water Lane ; the entrance 
popularly known as Traitor's Gate. The Galley- 
man Stair lay under the Cradle Tower, by which 
there was a private entrance into the royal quarter. 
This stair was not much used, except when the 
services of Traitor's Gate were out of order. Then 
prisoners who could not enter by the approach 
of honour were landed at the Galleyman Stair. 

Lying open to the liver and to the streets, 
the wharf was a promenade, a place of tiafho 
and of recreation, to which folk resoited on 
high days and fair days Men w ho loved 
sights were pretty sure to fand something 



worth seeing at either the Queen's Stair or Traitor's 
Gate. All personages coming to the Tower in 
hen .ur were landed at the Queen's Stair ; all per- 
sonages coming in disgrace were pushed through the 
Traitor's Gate. Now a royal barge, with a queen on 
board, was going forth in her bravery of gold and 
pennons ; now a lieutenant's boat, returning with 
a culprit in the stern, a headsman standing at his 
side, holding in his hand the fatal axe. 

Stmding on the bank, now busy vsdth a new 
life, these pictures of an old time start into being 
like a mystic writing on the wall. Two of these 
scenes come back with warm rich colouring to 
the inner eye. 

Now : — it is London in the reign of that Henry 
the Builder, who loved to adorn the fortress in 
which he dwelt. Whose barge is moored at yon 
stair, with the royal arms 1 What men are those 
with tabard and clarion ? Who is that proud and 
beautiful woman, her fair face fired with rage, 
who steps into her galley, but whose foot appears 
to scorn the plank on which it treads 1 She is 
the queen ; wife of the great builder ; Elinor 
of Provence, called by her minstrels Elinor la 
Belle. A poetess, a friend of singers, a lover of 
music, she is said to have brought song and art 
into the English court from her native land. The 
first of our laureates came in her train. She has 
flushed the palace with jest and joust, with tinkle 
of citherns, with clang of horns. But the queen 
has faults, for which her gracious talent and her 
peerless beauty fail to atone. Her greed is high, 
her anger ruthless. Her court is filled with an 
outcry of merchants who have been mulcted of 
queen-geld, a wrangle of friars who have been 
robbed by her kith and kin, a roar of firemen 
and jewellers clamorous for their debts, a mm-iiuir 




Aih BoLElh AT THE QlEm s SfAlR (V)amlyM L Gow ) 



142 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



of knights and barons protesting against her loans, 
a clatter of poor Jews objecting to be spoiled. 
Despite her gifts of birth and wit, Elinor la Belle 
is the most unpopular princess in the world. She 
has been living at the Tower, which her husband 
loves ; but she feels that her palace is a kind of 
jail ; she wishes to get away, and she has sent for 
her barge and watermen, hoping to escape from 
her people and to breathe the free air of her 
Windsor home. 

Will the Commons let her go ^ Proudly her 
barge puts off. The tabards bend and the clarions 
blare. But the Commons, who wait her coming 
on London Bridge, dispute her passage, and drive 
her back with curses, crying, " Drown the witch ! 
Drown the witch ! " LTnable to pass the bridge, 
Elinor has to turn her keel, and, with passionate 
rage in her heart, to find her way back. 

Her son, the young and fiery Edward, never 
forgets this insult to his mother ; by-and-by he 
will seek revenge for it on Lewes field ; and by 
mad pursuit of his revenge he will lose the great 
fight and imperil his father's crown. 

Again : — it is London in the reign of bluff King 
Hal— the husband of two fair wives. The river is 
alive with boats ; the air is white with smoke ; 
the sun overhead is burning with golden j\Iay. 
Thousands on thousands of spectators dot the 
banks ; for to-day a bride is coming home to the 
king, the beauty of whose face sets old men's 
fancies and young men's eyes agog. On the 
wharf, near the Queen's Stair, stands a burly 
figure, tall beyond common men ; broad in chest 
and strong in limb ; dressed in a doublet of gold 
and crimson, a cap and plume, shoes with rosettes 
and diamonds, a hanger by his side, a George 
upon his breast. It is the king, surrounded by 
dukes and earls, awaiting the arrival of a barge, 
in the midst of blaring trumpets and exploding 
sakers. A procession sweeps along; stealing up 
from Greenwich, with plashing oars and merry 
strains, fifty great boats, with a host of wherries 
on their flanks ; a vessel firing guns in front, and 
a long arrear of craft behind. 

From the first barge lands the lord mayor ; 
from the second trips the bride ; from the rest 
stream out the picturesque city companies. 
Cannons roar, and bells fling out a welcome to 
the queen ; for this is not simply a great day in 
the story of one lovely woman ; but a great day 
in the story of English life. Now is the morning 
time of a new era ; for on this bright May — 

" The gospel light first shines from Boleyii's eyes," 

and men go mad with hope of things which are 
yet to come. 

The king catches that fair young bride in his 
arms, kisses her soft cheek, and bears her in 
through the Bye-ward Tower. 



The picture fades from view, and presently 
reappears. Is it the same 1 The queen — the 
stair — the barge — the crowd of men — all these 
are here. Yet the picture is not the same. No 
burly Henry stands by the stair ; no guns disturb 
the sky ; no blast of trumpets greets the royal 
barge ; no train of aldermen and masters waits 
upon the queen. The lovely face looks older by 
a dozen years ; yet scarcely three have passed 
since that fair form was clasped in the king's 
arms, kissed, and carried by the bridge. This 
time she is a prisoner, charged with having done 
such things as pen cannot write ; things which 
would be treason, not to her lord only, but to her 
womanhood, and to the King of kings. 

When she alights on the Queen's Stair, she 
turns to Sir William Kingston, Constable of 
the Tower, and asks, " Must I go into a dungeon 1 " 
" No, madam," says the constable ; " you will lie 
in the same room which you occupied before." 
She falls on her knees. "It is too good for 
me," she cries ; and then weeps for a long time, 
lying on the cold stones, with all the people 
standing by in tears. She begs to have a sacra- 
ment in her own room, that she may pray -ndth 
a pure heart ; sayin.o-. she is free from sin, and 
that she is, and has always been, the king's true 
wedded wife. 

" Shall I die without justice ? " she inquires. 
"Madam," says Kingston, "the poorest subject 
would have justice." The lady only laughs a 
feeble laugh. 

Other, and not less tragic, scenes drew crowds 
to the Water Way from the Thames. 

Beneath this arch has moved a long procession 
of our proudest peers, our fairest women, our 
bravest soldiers, our wittiest poets — Buckingham 
and Strafford ; Lady Jane Grey, the Princess 
Elizabeth ; William Wallace, David Bruce ; 
Surrey, Raleigh — names in which the splendour, 
poetry, and sentiment of our national story are 
embalmed. Most of them left it high in rank 
and rich in life, to return, by the same dark 
passage, in a few brief hours poorer than the 
beggars who stood shivering on the bank ; in 
the eyes of the law, and in the words of their 
fellows, already dead. 

From this gateway went the barge of that Duke 
of B'dckingham, the rival of Wolsey, the last 
permanent High-constable of England. Buck- 
ingham had not dreamed that an offence so slight 
as his could bring into the dust so proud a head ; 
for his offence was nothing ; some silly words 
which he had bandied lightly in the Rose, a city 
tavern, about the young king's journey into 
France. He could not see that his head was 
struck because it moved so high ; nay, his proud 
boast that if his enemies sent him to the Tower, 
ten thousand friends would storm the walls to set 



LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS. 



143 



him free, was perhaps the occasion of his fall. 
Wh,2n sentence of death was given, he marched 
back to his barge, where Sir Thomas Lovel, then 
constable, stood ready to hand him to the seat of 
honom-. " Nay," said the duke to Lovel, " not so 
now. When I came to Westminster I was Lord 
High-constable and Duke of Buckingham ; now I 
am but poor Edward Stafford." 

Landed at the Temple Stair, he was marched 
along Fleet Street, through St. Paul's Churchyard, 
and by way of Cheap to the Tow;r; the axe 
borne before him all the way ; Sir WiUiam Sandys 
holding him by the right arm. Sir Nicholas Vaux 
by the left. A band of Augustine friars stood 
praying round the block ; and when his head had 
fallen into the dust they bore his remains to 
St. Austin's Church. 

On these steps, too, beneath this Water Gate, 
Elizabeth, then a fair young girl, with gentle 
feminine face and golden hair, was landed by her 
jealous sister's servants. The day was Sunday — 
Palm Sunday— with a cold March rain coming 
down, and splashing the stones witli mud. She 



could not land without soiling her feet and 
clothes, and for a moment she refused to leave 
her barge. Sir John Gage, the constable, and 
hia guards, stood by to receive her. "Are all 
these harnessed men for me 1 " she asked. " No, 
madam," said Sir .John. " Yea," she replied, " I 
know it is so." Then she stood up in her boat and 
leaped on shore. As she set foot on the stone 
steps, she exclaimed, in a spirit prouder than her 
looks — for in her youth she had none of that 
leonine beauty of her later years — "Here landeth 
as true a subject, being a prisoner, as ever landed 
at these stairs ; and before thee, God, I speak 
it." Perhaps she was thinking of her mother, 
who had landed on the neighbouring wharf. 
Anne had fallen on her knees on these cold stones, 
and here had called on God to help her, as she 
was not guilty of the things of which she stood 
accused. In those two attitudes of appeal one 
reads the nature of these two proud and gentle 
women, each calling Heaven to witness her 
innocence of crime — Elizabeth defiant, erect ; 
Anne suppliant, on her knees. 



LEEDLE YAWCOB STEAUSS.* 

[By Charles F. Adams.] 



I HAP von funny leedle poy, 
Vot gomes schust to mine knee ; 
Der queerest schap, der createst rogue, 
As efer you dit see. 

He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings 

In all barts of der house : 
But vot off dot 1 he vas mine son, 

Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss. 

He get der measles und der mumbs, 

Und eferyding dot's oudt ; 
He spills mine glass of lager bier. 

Boots schnuflf indo mine kraut. 

He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese, — 

Dot vas der roughest chouse : 
I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy 

But leedle Yawcob Strauss. 

He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum, 

Und cuts mine cane in dwo. 
To make der schticks to beat it mit, — 

Mine gracious, dot vos drue ! 



I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart 

He kicks oup soo;h a touse : 
But never mind ; der poys vas few 

Like dot young Yawcob Strauss. . 

He asks me ciuestions sooch as dese ; 

Who baints mine nose so red 1 
Who vas it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt 
■ Vrom der hair ubon mine hed ? 

Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp 

Vene'er der glim I douse. 
How gan I all dose dings eggsblain 

To dot sohmall Yawcob Strauss 1 

I somedimes dink I schall go vild 

Mit sooch a grazy poy, 
LTnd vish vonce more I gould haf rest, 

Und beaceful dimes enshoy ; 

But ven he vash ashleep in ped, 

So guiet as a mouse, 
I prays der Lord, " Dake anyding. 

But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss." 



By permission of Mersrs. George Eoutledfre and Sons. 



U4 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



HAPPY THOUGHTS. 

[By r. C. BUENAKD.1 




I 



HAVE now hit 
upon a very 
happy thought. 
Being in need of 
quiet, in order to 
commence my 
great work on 
"Typical Develop- 
ments," I have 
found a charming 
retreat on the banks 
of the Thames, 
somewher-e about 
Twickenham, or 
Teddington, or 
Richmond, or Kingston, and all that part. Capital 
fishing here. In punts, with a man, and worms ; 
average sport, one tittlebat in ten hours. 

First Happy Day. Cliarming ; perfect quiet. 
See a man in punt, fishing. A.sk him how long 
he had been there 1 He says, "Three houris." 
Caught anything? "Nothing." He is quite 
cheerful. Full of happy thoughts, and commence 
my Typical Devdopmwnts. In the evening catch 
an earwig ; not a bit frightened of him. The 
pincers in an eanvig's tail don't hite. 

To bed early. Leave the man fishing ; his man 
with the bait asleep. Been there all day 1 " Yes." 
Caught anything 1 " Nothing." Quite contented. 
Second Happiy Day. LTp early. Same man in 
punt, still fishing ; new man with bait. Ask him 
how long he has been there % "All night." Caught 
anything'? "Nothing." Not at all irritable. . . . 
Kill two earwigs in my bath. Sit in my parlour to 
write. 

Before me is my little lawn : at the foot of the 
lawn runs the river. 

9 A.M. I commence my Typiical Developments, 
note the fact, keeping by me this journal of 
observation in case anything turns irp. Something 
has turned up : an earwig. Distracting for a 
moment, but now defunct. All is peace. I walk 
down the lawn. Caught anything % " Nothing." 
His voice is, I fancy, getting weaker. I am 
meditating, and my soul is rising to sublime 

heights A Barge is passing slowly, 

towed by horses against a strong stream, while 
the happy bargeman trudges cheerily along ; and 
other happy bargemen with their wive.s and 
children loll lazily on the deck. (The fishing punt 
has suddenly disappeared. ) Ah ! how easily may 
we float against the stream of life, if we are towed. 

How sweet it is to a Barge has stuck on the 

shallow.*. 



Scientific Note. — How distinctly water conveys 
sound. I can hear every word that happy barge- 
man on the opposite shore says, as if I were at his 
elbow. He is using language of a fearful descrip- 
tion to his horses. The other bargeman has lifted 
himself up (he was on his back kicking his legs in 
the air on deck) to remonstrate. His remon- 
strances are couched in still stronger language, and 
include the man and the beasts. Woman (his wife I 
should say) interferes with a view to peacemaking. 
Her soothing word.'> are more forcible than those 
of the two men, and include them both with the 
beasts. The children have also joined in, and are 
abusing the bargeman (their father, as I gather) on 
shore. My gardener tells me they'll probably 
stick here till the tide turns. I ask him if it often 
happens ? He tells me " Oh ! it's a great place for 
barges." My sister and two ladies in the drawing- 
room (also facing the lawn) have closed their win- 
dows. Typical De-oelopments shall have a chapter 
on the " Ideal Bargeman." To write is unpossible 
at present. A request has been forwarded to me 
from the drawing-room to the effect that I would 
step in and kill an earwig or two. I step in and 
kill five. Ladies in hysterics. The punt has re- 
appeared : he only put in for more bait. Caught 
anything % " Nothing." Had a bite 1 " Once, I 
tliink." He is calm, but not in any way trium- 
phant. 

Evening. — Tide turned. Barge gone. They 
swore till the last moment. From my lawn I 




attempted to reason with them. I called them 
I " my good men," and tried to cajole them. Their 

immediate reply was of an evasive character. I 
I again attempted to reason with them. Out of 
I their next reply I distinguished only one word 



HAPPY THOUGHTS. 



145 



which was not positively an oath. Even as it 
stood apart from its context, it wasn't a nice 
word, and my negotiations came to an end. Went 
back to my parlour and killed earwigs. 

Night. — Man in punt still fishing. He informs 
ifle that he doesn't think this a very good place for 
sport. Caught anything ? " Nothing." He is 
going somewhere else. I find that I can write at 
night. No noise. I discover for the first time 
that I've got a neighbour who looks at the Moon 
.and Jupiter every night through a large telescope. 
He asks me would I like to step in and see 
Jupiter ?....! have stepyied in and seen 




Jupiter (who gave us some difiiculty in getting 
himself into a focus) until my head aches. He 
has a machine for stopping the earth's motion 
while we look at .Jupiter. It is very convenient, 
as you can't get a good look at Jupiter while the 
earth is going round, 

Happy Tliotiyht. — To call my astronomical 
acquaintance "Joshua." I do. He doesn't like 
it. No writing to-night. During my absence, 
five moths, attracted by the gas-light, and at least 
a hundred small green flies, have perished misera- 
bly on my MS. paper and books. . . Screams 
from the ladies' bed-room. Off. .... Maid 
servant up ! ! ! Lights ! ! Would I mind stepping 
in and killing an earwig." Bed. I open my 
window and gaze on the placid stream. Wliy, 
there's a punt ; and a man in it : fishing. He is 
returned. Caught anything ? " Nothing." Good 
night. " Good night." 

Third Happy Day. — Five earwigs in bath, 
drowned. Fine day for Typical Developments. 
Man and punt gone ; at least I don't see them. 
Commenced Chapter 1st. . . . Dear me ! 
MiLsic on the water. A large barge with a pleasure 
party. They're dancing the Lancers. The gardener 
says, in reply to my question about the frequent 
cecurrence of these merry-makings, " Oh, yes, it's a 



great place for pleasure parties and moosic. They 
comes up in smnmer about three or four at a time 
all a playin' of different toons. Quite gay like. 
The Maria Jane brings up parties every day with 
a band." The Maria Jane is the name of the 
pleasure barge. Bah ! I will overcome this 
nervousness. I wiU abstract myself from passing 
barges and music, and concentrate myself upon — 
tiddledy tidcUedy rum ti tum — that's the bowing 
figure in the Lancers — hang the bowing figure ! 
— Let me concentrate myself upon — with a 
tiddledy tiddledy rum ti tum. It's diifioult to 
remember the Lancers. The barge has passed. 
Now for Typical Developments. — Message from 
my aunt, " Would I step in and kill an earwig in 
the work-box." ... A steamer! I didn't 
know steamers were allowed here. "Oh, yes," the 
gardener says, " it's a great place for steamers. 
They brings up school children for feasts." They 
do with a vengeance ; the children are shouting 
and holloaing, their masters and mistresses are 
issuing orders for landing ; thank goodness, on the 
opposite bank. They've got a band, too. " No," 
the gardener explains, "it's not their band I hear, 
that belongs to the Benefit Societies' Club, as has 
just come up in the other steamer behind." The 
other steamer ! They're dancing the Lancers, too. 
I must concentrate myself ; let me see, where was 
I ? Typical Developments. Chap. I. Tiddledy 
tiddledy rum ti tum. With my tidcUedy tiddledy 
rum tum tum. And my tiddledy tiddledy. That's 
the bowing figure. Now they're bowing, and 
finish, yes, tiddledy tiddledy rum ti tum. The 
Lancers is rather fun. . . Goodness ! I find 
myself unconsciously practising steps and doing 
a figure. I must concentrate myself. 

Afternoon. — Barges and swearing. Pleasure boat 
with band, and party dancing Lancers, for the 
fourth time. Eeturn of all the boats, steamers, 
and barges ; they stop opposite, out of a mistaken 
complimentary feeling on their part, and play (for 
a change) the Lancers, Tiddledy tiddledy rum ti 
tum. Becoming a little wild, I dance by myself on 
the lawn. The maid comes out. " Would I .step 
in and kill an earwig 1 " With pleasure — bowing 
figure — and niy tiddledy iddledy rum ti tum. 

Night. — The turmoil has all passed. I walk 
clown the lawn and gaze on the calmly flowing 
river. Is it possible ? There is the punt and the 
man, fishing. He'd been a little higher up. Caught 
anything'? "Nothing." Gardener informs me 
that people often come out for a week's fishing. 
I suppose he's come out for a week's fishing. Neigh- 
bour over the hedge" asks me, " Would I like to 
have a look at Jupiter 1" I say I won't trouble 
him. He says no trouble, just get the focus, stop 
the earth's motion, and there you are. He does get 
the focus, stops the earth's motion with his in- 
strument, and, consequently, there I am. I leave 



146 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



my Typical Developments, Chap. I. . . . Look- 
ing tlirougli the telescope makes one's head ache. 
We did have some brandy-and-water. Shan't stop 
up so late again. Cocks begin to crow here at 
midnight. It's quite light at midnight : I can't con- 
centrate myself like the man in the punt. Caught 
anything 1 "Nothing." Good night. ''Good 
night." 

Fourth and Fifth Happy Days. — Typical 
Developments, Chap. I. Man in punt disappeared. 
Lancers, tiddledy iddledy rum ti turn, from 11 a.m. 
till 2 p.m. School feasts 2 till 5. Earwigs to be 
killed every other half-hour. Cheering from Odd 
Fellows and Mutual Benevolent Societies. Barges 
at all hours and strong language. Festive people 
on opposite shore howling and fighting up till past 
midnight. Gardener says, " Oh ! yes, it's a great 
place for all that sort of thing." Disturbed in the 
evening by Jupiter, Saturn, and the Moon, which 
have got something remarkable the matter with 
them. Accounted for, perhaps, by the machine for 



checking the earth's motion being a little out ot 
order. 

Happy Thought. — I have found a more charm- 
ing " Retreat" on the banks of the Thames, i.e., to 
retreat altogether. Have heard of an old Feudal 
Castle to be let. Shall go there. Shan't take my 
mother, nor my aunt, and, of course, not Miss- 
Jinsey. 

Ha2:>py Thought. — To be alone. Moat and re- 
mote ; put that into Typical Developments,. 
Chap. I. We have packed up everything. I open 
my note-book of memoranda to see if I've left 
anything behind. I walk down the lawn to see 
if I've left anything behind there. Yes ! there 
he is. The man in the punt, still fishing. He- 
says he's been a little lovrer down. Any sport % 
" None." Caught anything here % " Nothing." 
Good bye. "Good bye." And so I go away and 
leave him behind. 



-S^s^^ll 



THE VALUE OF THOUGHT. 



[From -' The Stones of Venice." By John Ritsein.] 




HE modern English mind has 
this much in common with 
that of the Greek, that it in- 
tensely desires, in all things, 
the utmost completion or per- 
fection compatible with their 
nature. This is a noble cha- 
racter in the abstract, bvit be- 
comes ignoble when it causes 
us to forget the relative dignities of that nature 
itself, and to prefer the perfectness of the lower 
nature to the imperfection of the higher ; not con- 
sidering that as, judged by such a rule, all the brute 
animals would be preferable to man, because more 
perfect in their functions and kind, and yet are 
always held inferior to him, so also in the works of 
man, those which are more perfect in their kind are 
always inferior to those which are, in their nature, 
liable to more faults and shortcomings. For the 
finer the nature, the more flaws it will show through 
the clearness of it ; and it is a law of this universe, 
that the best things shall be seldomest seen in their 
best form. The wild grass grows well and strongly, 
one year with another ; but the wheat is, according 
to the greater nobleness of its nature, liable to 
the bitterer blight. And, therefore, while in all 
things that we see, or do, we are to desire perfec- 
tion, and strive for it, we are nevertheless not to 



set the meaner thing, in its narrow accomplish- 
ment, above the nobler thing, in its mighty 
progress ; not to esteem smooth minuteness above 
shattered majesty ; not to prefer mean victory tO' 
honourable defeat ; not to lower the level of our 
aim, that we may the more surely enjoy the com- 
placency of success. 

But, above all, in our dealings with the souls 
of other men, we are to take care how we check, 
by severe requirement or narrow caution, efforts 
which might otherwise lead to a noble issue ; and, 
still more, how we withhold our admiration from 
great excellences, because they are minglod with 
rough faults. Now, in the make and nature of 
every man, however rude or simple, whom we 
employ in manual labour, there are some powers 
for better things : some tardy imagination, torpid 
capacity of emotion, tottering steps of thought, 
there are, even at the worst ; and in most cases it 
is all our own fault that they are tardy or torpid. 
But they cannot be strengthened, unless we are 
content to take them in their feebleness, and 
unless we prize and honour them in their im- 
perfection above the best and most pei'lect manual 
skill. And this is what we have to do with all 
our labourers ; to look for the thoughtful part of 
them, and get that out of them, whatever we lose 
for it, whatever faults and errors we are obliged to 



THE VALUE OF THOUGHT. 



147 



-take -with it. For tlie best that is in tliem cannot 
manifest itself, but in company with much error. 

Understand this clearly : You can teach a man 
to draw a straight line, and to cut one ; to strike 
a curved line, and to carve it ; and to copy and 
carve any number of given lines or forms, with 
admirable speed and perfect precision ; and you 
find his work perfect of its kind : but if you ask 
him to think about any of those forms, to consider 
if he cannot find any better in his own head, he 
stops ; his execution becomes hesitating ; he 
thinks, and ten to one he thinks wrong ; ten to 
■ one lie makes a mistake in the first touch he gives 
to his work as a tliinking being. But you have 
made a man of him for all that. He was only a 
machine before, an animated tool. 

And observe, you are put to stern choice in this 
matter. You must either make a tool of the 
creature, or a man of him. You cannot make 
both. Men were not intended to work with the 
accuracy of tools, to be precise and perfect in all 
their actions. If you will have that precision out 
■of them, and make their fingers measure degrees 
like cog-wheels, and their arms strike curves like 
•compasses, you must unhumanise them. All the 



energy of their spirits must be given to make cogs 
and compasses of themselves. All their attention 
and strength must go to the accomplishment of 
the mean act. The eye of the soul must be bent 
upon the finger-point, and the soul's force must fill 
all the invisible nerves that guide it, ten hours a 
day, that it may not err from its steely precision, 
and so soul and sight be worn away, and the whole 
human being be lost at last — a heap of sawdust, so 
far as its intellectual work in this world is concerned; 
saved only by its Heart, which cannot go into the 
form of cogs and compasses, but expands, after 
the ten hours are over, into fireside humanity. 

On the other hand, if you will make a man of 
the working creature, you cannot make a tool 
Let him but begin to imagine, to think, to try to 
do anything worth doing ; and the engine-turned 
precision is lost at once. Out come all his rough- 
ness, all his dulness, all his incapability ; shame 
upon shame, failure upon failure, pause after 
pause : but out comes the whole majesty of him 
also ; and we know the height of it only when we 
see the clouds settling upon him. And, whether 
the clouds be bright or dark, there wUl be trans- 
figuration behind and within them. 



'^'-^a 



¥^:r- 



RUPEET'S MAECK. 

[Fro.ri ■• Historical and Legendary Ballads." By Walter THOEHEnET.J 




I- 

./i-RABINE slung, stirrup well hung, 
"y Flagon at saddle-bow merrUy swung ; 

Toss up the ale, — for our flag, like a sail. 

Struggles and swells in the July gale. 

Colours fling out, and then give them a 
shout ; 

We are the gallants to put them to rout. 



:Flash all your swords, like Tartarian hordes, 

And scare the prim ladies of Puritan lords ; 

•Our steel caps shall blaze through the long summer 

days. 
As we galloping sing our mad Cavalier lays. 
'Then, banners, advance ! by the lilies of France, 
"We are the gallants to lead them a dance ! 



Hing the bells back, though the sexton look black, 
Defiance to knaves who are hot on our track. 
■" Murder and fire ! " shout louder and higher ; 
Eemember Edge Hill and the red-dabbled mire, 
"When our steeds we shall stall in the Parliament 

hall. 
And shake the old nest till the roof-tree shall fall. 



IV. 

Froth it up, girl, till it splash every curl, 
October's the liquor for trooper and earl ; 
Bubble it up, merry gold in the cup, 
We never may taste of to-morrow night's sup 
(Those red ribbons glow on thy bosom below 
Like apple-tree bloom on a hillock of snow). 

V. 
No, by my word, there never shook sword 
Better than this in the clutch of a lord. 
The blue streaks that run are as bright in the sun 
As the veins on the brow of that loveliest one ; 
No deep light of the sky, when the twilight is 

nigh, 
Glitters more bright than this blade to the eye. 

TI. 

Well, whatever may hap, this rusty steel cap 

Will keep out fuU many a pestilent rap ; 

This buff, though it's old, and not larded with 

gold. 
Will guard me from rapier as well as from cold ; 
This scarf, rent and torn, though its colour is 

worn, 
Shone gay as a page's but yesterday morn. 



148 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 




' Red grew the tide.'* {Dravm &y W, Small.) 



Here is a dint from the jag of a flint 
Thrown by a Puritan, just as a hint ; 
But this stab through the buff was a warning 

more rough, 
WTien Coventry city arose in a huff ; 
And I met with this gash, as we rode with a crash 
Into Noll's pikes on the banks of the Ash. 

VIII. 

No jockey or groom wears so draggled a plume 
As this, that's just drenched in the swift flowing 
Froom, 



Red grew the tide ere we reached the steep side 
And steaming the hair of old Barbary's hide ; 
But for branch of that oak, that saved me a stroke- 
I had sunk there like herring in pickle to scale. 

IX. 

Pistolet crack flashed bright on our track, 
And even the foam of the water turned black. 
They were twenty to one, our poor rapier to gun, 
But we charged up the bank, and we lost only one^ 
So I sa.-ed the old flag, though it was but a rag, 
And the sword in my hand was snapped off to a 
jag. 



RUPERT'S MARCH. 



140 



.The water was cliurnecl as we wheeled and we 

turned, 
And the dry brake, to scare out the vermin, we 

burned ; 
We gave our halloo, and our trumpet we blew ; 
Of aU their stout fifty we left them but two ; 
With a mock and a laugh, won their banner and 

staff, 
And trod down the cornets as threshers do chaff. 

XI. 

Saddle my roan, his back is a throne, 

Better than velvet or gold, you wall own. 

Look to your match, for some harm you may 

catch, 
For treason has always some mischief to hatch. 
And OHver's out with aU Haslerigg's rout, 
So I'm told by this shivering, white-livered scout. 

XII. 

We came o'er the downs, through vUlage and 

towns. 
In spite of the sneers, and the curses, and frowns, 
Drowning their psalms and stilUng their qualms, 
With a clatter and rattle of scabbards and arms, 
Down the long street, with a trample of feet, 
For the echo of hoofs to a Cavalier's sweet. 



See, black on each roof, at the sound of our hoof, 
The Puritans gather, but keep them aloof ; 
Their muskets are long and they aim at a throng. 
But woe to the weak when they challenge the 

strong ! 
Butt-end to the door — one Iiammer more. 
Our pike-men rush in and the struggle is o'er. 



Storm through the gate, batter the plate, 

Cram the red crucible into the grate. 

Saddle-bags fill, Bob, Jenkin, and Will, 

And spice the staved wine that runs out like a 

rill; 
That maiden shall ride all to-day by my side, 
Those ribbons are fitting a Cavalier's bride. 



Does Baxter say right, that a bodice laced tight 
Should never be seen by the sun or the light ? 
Like stars from a wood, shine under that hood 
Eyes that are sparkling, though pious and good. 



Surely this waist was by Providence placed, 
By a true lover's arm to be often embraced. 

XVI. 

Doivn on your knees, you villains in frieze ; 

A draught to King Charles, or a swing from those 

trees. 
Blow off this stiff look, for 'tis useless to knock, 
The ladies will pardon the noise and the shock ; 
From this bright dewy cheek, might I venture to 

speak, 
I coidd kiss off the tears, though she wept for a 

week. 

XVII. 

Now loop me this scarf round the broken pike- 
staff, 

'Twill do for a flag, though the Cropheads may 
laugh. 

Who was it blew ? Give a halloo, 

And hang out the pennon of crimson and blue. 

A volley of shot is welcoming hot — 

It cannot be troop of the murdering Scot. 

XVIII.' 

Fire the old mill on the brow of the hill ; 
Break down the plank that runs over the rill : 
Bar the town gate— if the burghers debate, 
Shoot some to death— for the villains must wait. 
Rip up the lead from the roofing o'erhead. 
And melt it for buUets, or we shall be sped. 



Now look to your buff, for steel is the stuff 
To slash your brown jerkins with crimson enough. 
There burst a flash : I heard their drums crash — 
To horse ! Now for race over moorland and plash. 
Ere the stars glimmer out we will wake with a 

shout 
The true men of York, who will welcome our rout. 



We'll shake their red roofs with our echoing hoofs. 
And flutter the dust from their tapestry woofs ; 
Their old minster shall ring with our " God save 

the King!" 
And our horses shall drink at St. Christopher's 

spring ; 
We shaU welcome the meat oh ! the wine will 

taste sweet. 
When oiir boots are flung off and as brothers we 

greet. 



6>„^ 




150 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



MR. EABBIT AND ME. FOX.* 

[From " Uncle Eemus : Legends of the Old Plantation." By J. C. Hahkis.] 



^^ip IDN'T the fox never catch the rabbit, 

IJ^ Uncle Remus? " asked the little boy, 
r^^g, "He come mighty nigh it, honey, sho's 

111®;- you bawn — Brer Fox did. One day 

jns, atter Brer Rabbit fool 'im wid dat calamus 

-*• root. Brer Fox went ter "vvuk en got 'im some 

1 tar, en mix it wid some turkentime, en fix up 
a contrapshun what he called a Tar-Baby, en 
he tuck dish yer Tar-Baby en he sot 'er in de 
big road, en den he lay off in de bushes fer ter see 
wat de news wuz gwineter be. En he didn't 
-hatter wait long, nudder, kaze bimeby here come 
Brer Rabbit pacin' down de road — lippity-cUppity, 
■clippity-lippity — dez ez sassy ez a jay-bird. Brer 
Fox, he lay low. Brer Rabbit come prancin' 'long 
twel he spy de Tar-Baby, en den he fotch up on 
his behime legs like lie wuz 'stonished. De Tar- 
Baby, she sot dar, she did, en Brer Fox, he lay low. 

" ' Mawnin' ! ' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee — ' nice 
wedder dis mawnin',' sezee. 

" Tar-Baby ain't sayin' nuthin', en Brer Fox, 
he lay low. 

" ' How duz yo' sym'tunis, seem ter segashu- 
ate 1 ' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. 

" Brer Fox, he wink his eye slow, en lay low, en 
de Tar-Baby, she ain't sayin' nuthin'. 

" ' How you come on, den 1 Is you deaf 1 ' sez 
Brer Rabbit, sezee. ' Kaze if you is, I kin holler 
louder,' sezee. 

"Tar-baby stay still, en Brer Fox, he lay low. 

"' Youer stuck up, dat's w'at you is,' says Brer 




' Hl fotch up on his behime legs. 



dat's 



Rabbit, sezee, ' en I'm gwineter kyore you, 
w'at I'm a gwineter do,' sezee. 

" Brer Fox, he sorter chuckle in his stummuck, 
he did, but Tar-Baby aint sayin' nuthin 

" ' I'm gwineter larn 



'specttubble fokes ef hit's de las' ack,' sez Brer 
Rabbit, sezee. ' Ef you don't take off dat hat en 
tell me howdy, I'm gwineter bus' you wide open,' 
sezee. 

" Tar-Baby stay still, en Brer Fox, he lay low. 




'He tuck 'ek side er de head.' 



Brer Rabbit keep on axin' 'im, en de Tar- 
she keep on sayin, nuthin', twel present 'y 
Brer Rabbit draw back wid his fis', he did, en blip 
he tuck 'er side er de head. Right dar's whar he 
broke his merlasses jug. His tis' stuck, en he 
can't pull loose. De tar hilt 'im. But Tar- 
Baby, she stay still, en Brer Fox, he lay low. 

" ' Ef you don't lemme loose, I'll knock yon agin,' 
sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, en wid dat he fotch 'er a 
wipe wid de udder han', en dat stuck. Tar-Baby, 
she ain't sayin' nuthin', en Brer Fox, he lay low. 

" ' Tu'n me loose, fo' I kick de stuffin' outen 
you,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, but de Tar-Baby, 
she ain't sayin' nuthin'. She des hilt on, en 
den Brer Rabbit lose de use er his feet in de same 
way. Brer Fox, he lay low. Den Brer Babbit 
squall out dat ef de Tar-Baby don't tu'n 'im loose 
he butt 'er cranksided. En den he butted, en his 
head got stuck. Den Brer Fox, he sa'ntered fort', 
lookin' des ez innercent ez wunner yo' mammy's 
mockin'-birds. 

' " ' Howdy, Brer Rabbit,' sez Brer Fox, sezee. 
' You look sorter stuck up dis mawnin',' sezee, en 
den he rolled on de groun', en laft en laft twel he 
couldn't laff no mo'. ' I speck you'll take dinner 
wid me dis time. Brer Rabbit. I done laid in 
some calamus root, en I ain't gwineter take no 
skuse,' sez Brer Fox, sezee." 

" Wen Brer Fox fine Brer Babbit mixt up wid 
de Tar-Baby, he feel mighty good, en he roU on 
you liowter talk ter I de groun' en latf. Bimeby, he up'n say, sezee : 

• By permission of Messrs. George Eoutledge and Sous. 



MR. RABBIT AND MR, FOX 



151 



" ' Well, I speck I got you dis time, Brer 
Babbit,' sezee ; ' maybe I ain't, but I speck I is. 
You been runnin' roun' here sassin' atter me a 
mighty long time, but I speck you done come ter 
de een' er de row. You bin cuttin' up yo' capers 
en bouncin' 'roun' in dis naberliood ontwel you 
come ter b'leeve yo'se'f de boss er de whole gang. 
En den youer allers some'rs whar you got no 
bizuess,' sez Brer Fox, sezee. ' Who ax you fer 
ter come en strike up a 'quaintence wid dish yer 
Tar-Baby l En who stuck you up dar whar you iz^ 
Nobody in de roun' worril. You des tuck en jam 
yo'se'f on dat Tar-Baby widout waitin' fer enny 
invite,' sez Brer Fox, sezee, ' en dar you is, en 
dar you'll stay twell I fixes up a bresh-pile and 
fires her up, kaze I'm gwineter bobbycue you dis 
day, slio,' sez Brer Fox, sezee. 

" Den Brer Rabbit talk mighty 'umble. 

" ' I don't keer w'at you do wid me. Brer Fox,' 
sezee, ' so you don't fling me in dat brier-patch. 
Roas' me. Brer Fox,' sezee, ' but don't fling me in 
dat brier-patch,' sezee. 

'' ' Hit's so much trouble fer ter kindle a fier,' 
sez Brer Fox, sezee, ' dat I speck I'll hatter hang 
you,' sezee. 

'"Hang me des ez high as you please. Brer Fox,' 
sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ' but don't fling me in dat 
brier-patch,' sezee. 

" ' I ain't got no string,' sez Brer Fox, sezee, ' en 
now I speck I'll hatter drown you,' sezee. 

" ' Drown me des ez deep ez you please. Brer 
Fox,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ' but do don't fling 
me in dat brier-patch,' sezee. 

" ' Dey ain't no water nigh,' sez Brer Fox, sezee, 
' en now I speck I'll hatter skin you,' sezee. 

' " Skin me. Brer Fox,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, 
snatch out my eyeballs, t'ar out my years by de 
roots, en cut off my legs,' sezee, ' but do please, 



Dar wuz a considerbul flutter whar Brer Babbit 
struck de bushes, en Brer Fox sorter hand 'rouu' 
for ter see w'at wuz gwineter happen. Bimeby he 
hear somebody caU 'im, en way up de hill he see 




" He COTCH 'iil BY DE BEHIME LEGS." 

Brer Fox, don't fling me in dat brier-patch,' sezee. 

" Co'se Brer Fox wanter hurt Brer Rabbit bad 

ez he kin, so he cotcli 'im by de behime legs en 

slung 'im right in de middle er de brier-patch. 




"He see Brer Rabbit sittjn' cross-iegged." 

Brer Rabbit settin' cross-legged on a chinkapin 
log koamin' de pitch outen his har wid a chip. 
Den Brer Fox know dat he bin swop off mighty 
bad. Brer Babbit wuz bleedzed for ter fling back 
some er his sass, en he holler out : 

" ' Bred en bawn in a brier-patch, Brer Fox — 
bred en bawn in a brier-patch ! ' en wid dat he 
skip out des ez lively ez a cricket in de embers. 

" Brer Fox feel so bad, en he get so mad 'bout 
Brer Rabbit, dat he dunno w'at ter do, en he look 
mighty down-hearted. Bimeby, one day wiles he 
v.'uz gwine 'long de road, ole Brer WoK come up 
wid 'im. W'en dey done howdyin' en axin' atter 
one nudder's fambly kunnexshun. Brer Wolf, he 
'low, he did, dat der wuz sump'n wrong wid Brer 
Fox, en Brer Fox, he 'low'd der wern't, en he went 
on en laff en make great ter-do kaze Brer Wolf 
look like he spisliun sump'n. But Brer Wolf, he 
got mighty long head, en he sorter broach 'bout 
Brer Rabbit's kyar'ns on, kaze de way dat Brer 
Rabbit 'ceive Brer Fox done got ter be de talk er 
de naberhood. Den Brer Fox and Brer Wolf dey 
sorter palavered on, dey did, twel bimeby Brer 
Wolf he up'n say dat he done got plan fix fer ter 
trap Brer Rabbit. Den Brer Fox say how. Den 
Brer Wolf up'n tell 'im dat de way fer ter git de 
drap on Brer Babbit wuz ter git 'im in Brer Fox 
house. Brer Fox dun know Brer Babbit uv ole, 
en he know dat sorter game done wo' ter a frazzle, 
but Brer Wolf, he talk mighty 'swadin'. 

" ' How you gwine git 'im dar ? ' sez Brer Fox, 
sezee. 

" ' Fool 'im dar,' sez Brer Wolf, sezee. 

" ' Who gwine do de foolin' 1 ' sez Brer Fox, 
sezee. 

" ' I'll do de foolin',' sez Brer Wolf, sezee, ' ef 
you'll do de gamin',' sezee. 

'"How you gwine do it"? ' sez Brer Fox, sezee. 



152 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



" ' You run long home, en git on de bed, en 
make like you dead, en don't you say nuthin' twel 
Brer Rabbit come en put his han's outer you,' sez 
Brer Wolf, sezee, ' en ef we don't git 'm fer supper, 
Joe's dead en Sal's a widder,' sezee. 

" Dis look like mighty nice game, en Brer Fox 
'greed. So den he amble off home, en Brer Wolf, 
he march off ter Bier Rabbit house. Wen he got 
dar, hit look like m body at home, but Brer Wolf 




He walk up en knock on de do . 

he walk up en knock on de do' — blam ! blam ! 
Nobody come. Den he lam aloose en knock 'gin 
— blim ! blim ! 

" ' Who dar 1 ' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. 

" ' Fr'en',' sez Brer Wolf. 

" ' Too menny fr'en's spiles de dinner,' sez Brer 
Rabbit,' sezee ; ' w'ch un's dis ? ' sezee. 

" ' I fetch bad news, Brer Rabbit,' sez Brer 
Wolf, sezee. 

" ' Bad news is soon tole,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. 

" ' By dis time Brer Rabbit done come ter de 
do', wid his head tied up in a red hankcher. 

" ' Brer Fox died dis mawnin',' sez Brer Wolf, 
sezee. 

" ' Whar yo' mo'nin' gown, Brer Wolf 1 ' sez 
Brer Rabbit, sezee. 

" ' Gwine atter it now,' sez Brer Wolf, sezee. 
'I des call by fer ter bring de news. I went 
down ter Brer Fox house little bit 'go, en dar I 
foun' 'im stiff,' sezee. 

"Den Brer Wolf lope off. Brer Rabbit sot 



down en stratch his head, he did, en bimeby he 
say ter hisse'f dat he b'leeve he sorter drap 'roun' 
by Brer Fox house fer ter see how de Ian' lay. 
No sooner said'n done. Up he jump, en out he 
went. Wen Brer Rabbit got close ter Brer Fox 
house, all look lonesome. Den he went up nigher. 
Nobody stirrin'. Den he look in, en dar lay Brer 
Fox stretch out on de bed des ez big ez life. Den 
Brer Rabbit make like he talkin' to hisse'f. 




Dar la\ Bree Fos. 

" ' Nobody 'roun' fer ter look atter Brer Fox — 
not even Brer Tukkey Buzzard ain't come ter de 
funer'I,' sezee. ' I hope Brer Fox ain't dead, but 
I speck he is,' sezee. ' Even down ter Brer Wolf 
done gone en lef 'im. Hit's de busy season wid 
me, but I'll set up wid 'im. He seem like he 
dead, yet he mayn't be,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. 
'Wen a man go ter see dead fokes, dead fokes 
allers raises up der behime leg en hollers, wahoo ! ' 
sezee. 

" Brer Fox he stay still. Den Brer Rabbit he 
talk little louder : 

" ' Mighty funny. Brer Fox look like he dead, 
yit he don't do like he dead. Dead fokes hists der 
behime leg en hollers xuahoo ! w'en a man come 
ter see um,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. 

" Sho' nuff. Brer Fox lif up his foot en holler 
wahoo ! en Brer Rabbit he tear out de house like 
de dogs wuz atter 'im. Brer Wolf mighty smart, 
but nex' time you hear fum 'im, honey, he'll be in 
trouble. You des hole yo' breff'n wait." 




FIRST BLOOD. 



153 



FIRST BLOOD. 




[FiOm *■ The Deerslayer." 

||, EERSLAYER'E xttentionwas first given 
1^ to the canoe head. It was already quite 
^(, near the dangerous point, and a very few 
strokes of the paddle sufficed to tell him 
that it must touch before he could possibly 
overtake it. Just at this moment, too, the 
wind inopportunely freshened, rendering the 
drift of the light craft much more rapid and 
•certain. Feeling the impossibility of preventing a 
contact with the land, the young man wisely deter- 
mined not to heat himself with unnecessary exer- 
tions ; but, first looking to the priming of his 
piece, he proceeded slowly and warily towards the 
point, taking care to make a little circuit, that he 
might be exposed on only one side as he approached. 
The canoe adrift, being directed by no such 
intelligence, pursued its proper way, and grounded 
on a small sunken rock, at the distance of three or 
four yards from the shore. Just at this moment 
Deerslayer had got abreast of the point, and turned 
the bows of his own boat to the land ; first casting 
loose his tow, that his movements might be unen- 
cumbered. The canoe hung an instant on the rock ; 
then it rose a hair's-breadth on an almost imper- 
ceptible swell of the water, swung round, floated 
clear, and reached the strand. All this the young 
man noted, but it neither quickened his pulses nor 
hastened his hand. If any one had been lying in 
wait for the arrival of the waif he must be seen, 
and the utmost caution in approaching the shore be- 
came indispensable ; if no one was in ambush, hurry 
•was unnecessary. The point being nearly diagonally 
opposite to the Indian encampment, he hoped the 
last, though the former was not only possible, but 
probable ; for the savages were prompt in adopting 
aU the expedients of their particular modes of war- 
fare, and quite likely had many scouts searching 
the shores for craft to carry them ofi' to the castle. 
As a glance at the lake from any height or projec- 
tion would expose the smallest objects on its sur- 
face, there was little hope that either of the canoes 
could pass unseen, and Indian sagacity needed no 
instruction to tell which way a boat or a log would 
■drift, when the direction of the wind was known. 
As Deerslayer drew nearer and nearer to the land, 
the stroke of his paddle grew slower, his eye became 
more watchful, and his ears and nostrils almost 
dilated with the effort to detect any lurking danger. 
'Twas a trying moment for a novice, nor was there 
the encouragement which even the timid sometimes 
feel, when conscious of being observed and com- 
mended. He was entirely alone, throvra on his 
own resources, and was cheered by no friendly eye, 
■emboldened by no encouraging voice. Notwith- 



By J. Feisimore Coopep.] 

standing all these circumstances, the most expe- 
rienced veteran in forest warfare could not have 
conducted himself better. Equally free from 
recklessness and hesitation, his advance was 
marked by a sort of philosophical prudence, that 
appeared to render him superior to all motives but 
those which were best calculated to eff'ect his 
purpose. Such was the commencement of a career 
in forest exploits, that afterwards rendered this 
man, in his way, and under the limits of his habits 
and opportunities, as renowned as many a hero 
whose name has adorned the pages of works more 
celebrated than legends simple as ours can ever 
become. 

When about a hundred yards from the shore, 
Deerslayer rose in the canoe, gave three or four 
vigorous strokes with the paddle, sufficient of 
themselves to impel the bark to land, and then, 
quickly laying aside the instruments of labour, he 
seized that of war. He was in the very act of 
raising the rifle, when a sharp report was followed 
by the buzz of a bullet that passed so near his 
body as to cause him involuntarily to start. The 
next instant Deerslayer staggered, and fell his 
whole length in the bottom of the canoe. A yell — 
it came from a single voice — followed, and an 
Indian leaped from the bushes upon the open area 
of the point, bounding towards the canoe. This 
was the moment the young man desired. He rose 
on the instant, and levelled his own rifle at his un- 
covered foe ; but his finger hesitated about pulling 
the trigger on one whom he held at such a disad- 
vantage. This little delay probably saved the life 
of the Indian, who bounded back into the cover as 
swiftly as he had broken out of it. In the mean- 
time Deerslayer had been swiftly approaching the 
land, and his own canoe reached the point just as 
his enemy disappeared. As its movements had not 
been directed, it touched the shore a few yards 
from the other boat ; and though the rifle of his 
foe had to be loaded, there was not time to secure 
his prize and to carry it beyond danger before he 
would be exposed to another shot. Under the 
circumstances, therefore, he did not pause an 
instant, but dashed into the woods and sought a 
cover. 

Deerslayer knew that his adversary must be 
employed in re-loading unless he had fled. The 
former proved to be the case, for the young man 
had no sooner placed himself behind a tree, than 
he caught a glimpse of the arm of the Indian, his 
body being concealed by an oak, in the very act of 
forcing the leathered bullet home. Nothing would 
have been easier than to spring forward, and decide 



154 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



the afiair by a close assault on his unprepared foe; 
but every feeling of Deerslayer revolted at such a 
step, although his own life had just been attempted 
from a cover. He was yet unpractised in the ruth- 
less expedients of savage warfare, of which he knew 
nothing except by tradition and theory, and it 
struck him as an unfair advantage to assail an un- 
armed foe. His colour had heightened, his eye 
frowned, his lips were compressed, and all his 
energies were collected and ready ; but, instead of 
advancing to fire, he dropped his rifle to the usual 
position of a sportsman in readiness to catch his 
aim, and muttered to himself, unconscious that he 
was speaking — 

"No, no— that may be red-skin warfare, but it's 
not a Christian's gifts. Let the miscreant charge, 
and then we'll take it out like men ; for the canoe 
he must not, and shall not have. No, no ; let him 
have time to load, and God will take care of the 
right!" 

All this time the Indian had been so intent on 
his own movements, that he was even ignorant 
that his enemy was in the wood. His only appre- 
hension was, that the canoe would be recovered and 
carried away, before he might be in readiness to 
prevent it. He had sought the cover from habit, 
but was within a few feet of the fringe of bushes, 
and could be at the margin of the forest, in readi- 
ness to fire in a moment. 

His rifle was no sooner loaded, than the savage 
glanced around him, and advanced incautiously as 
regarded the real, but stealthily as respected the 
fancied position of his enemy, until he was fairly 
exposed. Then Deerslayer stepped from behind 
his own cover and hailed him. 

" This-a-way, red-skin : this-a-way, if you're 
looking for me," he called out ; " I'm young in 
war, but not so young as to stand on an open beach 
to be shot down like an owl by daylight. It rests 
on yourself whether it's peace or war atween us ; 
for my gifts are white gifts, and I'm not one of 
them that thinks it valiant to slay human mortals 
singly in the woods." 

The savage was a good deal startled by this 
sudden discovery of the danger he ran. He had a 
little knowledge of English, however, and caught 
the drift of the other's meaning. He was also too 
well schooled to betray alarm, but dropping the 
butt of his rifle to the earth, with an air of confi- 
dence he made a gesture of lofty courtesy. All this 
was done with the ease and self-possession of one 
accustomed to consider no man his superior. In 
the midst of this consummate acting, however, the 
volcano that raged within caused his eyes to glare, 
and his nostrils to dilate, like those of some wild 
beast that is suddenly prevented from taking the 
fatal leap. 

" Two canoe," he said in the deep guttural tones 
of his race, holding up the number of fingers he 



mentioned, by way of preventing mistakes : " one 
for you — one for me." 

" No, no, Mingo, that will never do. You own 
neither ; and neither shall you have, as long as I 
can prevent it. I know it's war atween your 
people and mine, but that's no reason why human 
mortals should slay each other, like savage 
creaturs that meet in the woods ; go your way 
then, and leave me to go mine. The world is 
large enough for us both ; and when we meet fairly 
in battle, why, the Lord wUl order the fate of each 
of us." 

" Good !" exclaimed the Indian ; " my brother 
missionary — great talk ; all about Manitou." 

" Not so, not so, warrior. I'm not good enough 
for the Moravians, and am too good for most of the 
other vagabonds that preach about in the woods. 
No, no, I'm only a hunter as yet, though afore the 
peace is made, 'tis like enough there'll be occasion 
to strike a blow at some of your people. Still, I 
wish it to be done in fair fight, and not in a quarrel 
about the ownership of a canoe." 

" Good ! My brother very young, but he very 
wise. Little warrior — great talker. Chief some- 
times in council." 

" I don't know this, nor do I say it, Indian," 
returned Deerslayer, colouring a little at the ill- 
concealed sarcasm of the other's manner : " I look 
forward to a life in the woods, and I only hope it 
may be a peaceable one. All young men must go 
on the war-path, when there's occasion, but war 
isn't needfully massacre. I've seen enough of the 
last, this very night, to know that Providence 
frowns on it ; and I now invite you to go your own 
way, while I go mine ; and hope that we may part 
fri'nd.s." 

" Good ! My brother has two scalp — grey hair 
under t'other. Old wisdom— young tongue." 

Here the savage advanced with confidence, his 
hand extended, his fane smiling, and his whole 
bearing denoting amity and respect. Deerslayer 
met his ofi'ered friendship in a proper spirit, and 
they shook hands cordially, each endeavouring to 
assure the other of his sincerity and desire to be at 
peace. 

" All have his own," said the Indian ; " my canoe, 
mine ; your canoe, your'n. Go look ; if your'n, you 
keep ; if mine, I keep." 

" That's just, red-skin ; though you must be 
wrong in thinking the canoe your property. How- 
soever, seein' is believin', and we'll go down to the 
shore, where you may look with your own eyes ; 
for it's likely you'll object to trustin' altogether to 
mine." 

The Indian uttered his favourite exclamation of 
" good," and then they walked, side by side, towards 
the shore. There was no apparent distrust in the 
manner of either, the Indian moving in advance, 
as if he wished to show his companion that he did 




'THE SAVAGE HURLED HIS KEEN WEAPON." 



-F/ilST niOOD" ip 155). 



FIEST BLOOD. 



155 



not fear turning liis back to him. As they reached 
the open gromid, the former pointed towards Deer- 
slayer's boat, and said, emphatically — 

"No mine— pale-face canoe. This red man's. 
No want other man's canoe— want his own." 
■ " You're wrong, red-skin ; you're altogether 
wrong. This canoe was left in old Hutter's keep- 
ing, and is his'n, according to all law, red or white, 
tUl its owner comes to claim it. Here's the seats 
and the stitching of the bark to speak for them- 
selves. No man ever know'd an Indian to turn 
off such work." 

"Good! My brother little old— big wisdom. 
Indian no make him. White man's work." 

" I'm glad you think so, for holding out to the 
contrary might have made ill-blood atween us, 
every one having a right to take possession of 
his own. I'll just shove the canoe out of reach 
of dispute at once, as the quickest way of settling 
difficulties." 

While Deerslayer was speaking, he put a foot 
against the end of the light boat, and giving a 
vigorous shove he sent it out into the lake a 
hundred feet or more, where, taking the true 
current, it would necessarily float past the point, 
and be in no further danger of coming ashore. 
The savage started at this ready and decided 
expedient, and his companion saw that he cast 
a hurried and fierce glance at his own canoe, 
or that which contained the paddles. The change 
of manner, however, was but momentary, and then 
the Iroquois resumed his air of friendliness and a 
smUe of satisfaction. 

" Good !" he repeated, with stronger emphasis 
than ever. " Young head, old mind. Know how to 
settle quarrel. Farewell, brother. He go to house 
in water — musk-rat house — Indian go to camp ; 
tell chief no find canoe." 

Deerslayer was not sorry to hear this, and took 
the proffered hand of the Indian very willingly. 
The parting words were friendly ; and whUe the 
red man walked calmly towards the wood, with the 
rifle in the hollow of his arm, without once looking 
back in uneasiness or distrust, the white man 
moved towards the remaining canoe, carrying his 
piece in the same pacific manner, it is true, but 
keeping his eyes fastened on the movements of the 
other. This distrust, however, seemed to be 
altogether uncalled for, and, as if ashamed have to 
entertained it, the young man averted his look, 
and stepped carelessly up to his boat. Here he 
began to push the canoe from the shore, and to 
make his other preparations for departing. He 
might have been thus employed a minute, when, 
happening to turn his face towards the land, his 
quick and certain eye told him at a glance the 
imminent jeopardy in which his life was placed. 
The black, ferocious eyes of the savage were 
glancing on him, like those of the crouching tiger. 



through a small opening in the bushes, and the 
muzzle of his rifle seemed already to be opening 
in a line with his own body. 

Then, indeed, the long practice of Deerslayer, 
as a hunter, did him good service. Accustomed to 
fire with the deer on the bound, and often when 
the precise position of the animal's body had in a 
manner to be guessed at, he used the same expe- 
dients here. To cock and poise his rifle were the acts 
of a single moment and a single motion : then, 
aiming almost without sighting, he fired into the 
bushes where he knew a body ought to be, in order 
to sustain the appalling countenance which alone 
was visible. There was not time to raise the piece 
any higher, or to take a more deliberate aim. So 
rapid were his movements that both parties dis- 
charged their pieces on the same instant, the con- 
cussions mingling in one report. The mountains, 
indeed, gave back but a single echo. Deerslayer 
dropped his piece, and stood with head erect, steady 
as one of the pines in the calm of a June morn- 
ing, watching the result : while the savage gave 
the yeU that has become historical for its appal- 
ling influence, leaped through the bushes, and 
came bounding across the open ground, flourishing 
a tomahawk. Still Deerslayer moved not, but stood 
with his unloaded rifle fallen against his shoulders, 
whUe, with a hunter's habits, his hands were 
mechanically feeling for the powder-horn and 
charger. When about forty feet from his enemy, 
the savage hm-led his keen weapon ; but it was 
with an eye so vacant, and a hand so unsteady and. 
feeble, that the young man caught it by the handle 
as it was flying past him. At that, instant the 
Indian staggered, and feU his whole length on the 
ground. 

"I know'd it — I know'd it!" exclaimed Deer- 
slayer, who was already preparing to force a fresh 
bullet into his rifle ; " I know'd it must come to 
this as soon as I had got the range from the 
creatur's eyes. A man sights suddenly, and fires 
when his own life's in danger ; yes, I know'd it 
would come to this. I was about the hundredth 
part of a second too quick for him, or it might have 
been bad for me ! The riptyle's bullet has just 
grazed my side — but, say what you will, for or 
ag'in 'em, a red-skin is by no means as sartain with 
pov/der and ball as a white man. Their gifts don't 
seem to lie that-a-way. Even Chingachgook, great 
as he is in other matters, isn't downright deadly 
with the rifle." 

By this time the piece was re-loaded, and Deer- 
slayer, after tossing the tomahawk into the canoe, 
advanced to his victim, and stood over him, lean- 
ing on his rifle in melancholy attention. It was 
the first instance in which he had seen a man fall 
in battle — it was the first fellow-creature against 
whom he had ever seriously raised his own hand. 
The sensations were novel ; and regret, with the 



156 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



freshness of our better feelings, mingled with his 
triumph. The Indian was not dead, though shot 
directly through the body. He lay on his back 
motionless, but his eyes, now full of consciousness, 
watched each action of his victor — as the fallen 
bird regards the fowler — jealous of every move- 
ment. The man probably expected the fatal blow 
which was to precede the loss of his scalp ; or 
perhaps he antici- 
pated that this latter 
act of cruelty would 
precede his death. 
Deerslayer read his 
thoughts, and he 
found a melancholy 
satisfaction in reliev- 
ing the apprehen- 
sions of the helpless 




" No, no, red-skin," 
he said ; " you've 
nothing more to fear 
from me. I am of 
a Christian stock, 
and scalping is not 
of my gifts. I'll just 
make sartain of your 
rifle, and then come 
back and do you 
what sarvice I can. 
Though here I can't 
stay much longer, 
as the crack of three 
rifles will be apt to 
bring some of your 
devils down upon 
me." 

The close of this 
was said in a sort 
of soliloquy, as the 
young man went in 
quest of the fallen 
rifle. The piece was 
found where its 
owner had dropped 
it, and was immedi- 
ately put into the canoe. Laying his own rifle at 
its side, Deerslayer then returned, and stood over 
the Indian again. 

" All inmity atween you and me's at an ind, red- 
skin," he said ; " and you may set your heart at 
rest on the score of the scalp, or any further 
injury. My gifts are white, as I've told you ; and 
I hope my conduct will be white also ! " 

Could looks have conveyed all they meant, it is 
probable that Deerslayer's innocent vanity on the 
subject of colour would have been rebuked a 
little ; but he comprehended the gratitude that 
was expressed in the eyes of the dying savage, 



' Deerslatee stood over him," 



without detecting in the least the bitter sarcasm 
that struggled with the better feeling. 

" Water I" ejaculated the thirsty and unfortunate 
creature ; " give poor Indian water." 

"Ay, water you shall have, if you drink the 

lake dry. I'll just carry you down to it, that 

you may take your fiU. This is the way, they 

tell me, with all wounded people — water is their 

greatest comfort and 

delight." 

So saying, Deer- 
slayer raised the- 
Indian in his arms, 
and carried him to the 
lake. Here he first 
helped him to take 
an attitude in which 
he could appease his. 
burning thirst ; after 
which he seated him- 
self on a stone, and 
took the head of his 
wounded adversary 
in his own lap, and en- 
deavoured to soothe 
his anguish in the 
best manner he could. 
"It would.be sinful 
in me to tell you your 
time hadn't come, 
warrior," he com- 
menced, " and there- 
fore I'll not say it. 
You've passed the 
middle age already, 
and considerin' the 
sort of lives ye lead^ 
your days have been 
pretty well filled. 
The principal thing 
now is to look for- 
ward to what comes 
next. Neither red- 
skin nor pale-face, on 
the whole, calculates 
much on sleepin' for 
ever ; but both expect to live in another world. 
Each has his gifts, and each will be judged by 'em, 
and I suppose you've thought these matters over 
enough, not to stand in need of sarmons, when 
the trial comes. You'll find your happy hunting 
grounds if you've been a just Indian ; if an unjust, 
you'll meet your desarts in another way. I've my 
own ideas about those things ; but you're too old 
and exper'enced to need any explanations from 
one as young as I." 

" Good ! " ejaculated the Indian, whose voice 
retained its depth even as life ebbed 
" young head — old wisdom !" 



FIRST BLOOD. 



157 



" It's sometimes a consolation, when the ind 
comes, to know that them we've harmed or tried 
to harm, forgive us. I suppose natur' seeks this 
relief by way of getting a pardon on 'arth ; as we 
never can know whether He pardons, who is all in 
all, till judgment itself comes. It's soothing to 
know that any pardon at such times ; and that, I 
conclude, is the secret. Now, as for myself, I 
overlook altogether your designs ag'in my life ; 
first, because no harm came of 'em ; next, because 
it's your gifts, and natur', and trainin', and I ought 
not to have trusted you at all ; and finally and 
chiefly because I can bear no ill-will to a dying man, 
whether heathen or Christian. So put your heart at 
ease, so far as I'm consarned ; you know best what 
other matters ought to trouble you, or what ought 
to give you satisfaction, in so trying a moment." 

It is probable that the Indian had some of the 
fearful glimpses of the unknown state of being 
which God, in mercy, seems at times to aiford to 
all the human race ; but they were necessarily in 
conformity with his habits and prejudices. Like 
most of his people, and like too many of our own, 
he thought more of dying in a way to gain ap- 
plause among those he left, than to secure a better 
state of existence hereafter. While Deerslayer 
was speaking, his mind was a little bewildered, 
though he felt that the intention was good ; and 
when he had done, a regret passed over his spirit 
that none of his own tribe were present to witness 
his stoicism, under extreme bodily suffering, and 
the firmness with which he met his end. With the 
high, innate courtesy that so often distinguishes 
the Indian warrior before he becomes corrupted by 
too much intercourse with the worst class of the 
white men, he endeavoured to express his thank- 
fvilness for the other's good intentions, and to let 
him understand that they were appreciated. 

" Good !" he repeated — for this was an English 
word much used by the savages — "good — young 
head ; young heai-t, too. Old heart tough ; no shed 
tear. Hear Indian when he die, and no want to 
lie — what he call him ?" 

" Deerslayer is the name I bear now, though the 
Delawares have said that when I get back from this 
war-path, I shall have a more manly title, provided 
I can 'arn one." 

"That good name for boy — poor name for warrior. 
He get better quick. No fear there " — the savage 
had strength sufficient, under the strong excite- 
ment he felt, to raise a hand and tap the young 
man on his breast — " eye sartain — finger lightning 
— aim death — great warrior soon. No Deerslayer 
— Hawkeye — Hawkeye — Hawkeye. Shake hand." 

Deerslayer — or Hawkeye, as the youth was then 
first named, for in after years he bore the appella- 
tion throughout all that region— Deerslayer took 
the hand of the savage, whose last breath was 
drawn in that attitude, gazing in admiration at the 



countenance of a stranger who had shown so much 
readmess, skill, and firmness in a scene that was 
equally trying and novel. When the reader re- 
members it is the highest gratification an Indian 
can receive to see his enemy betray weakness, he 
will be better able to appreciate the conduct 
which had extorted so great a concession at such 
a moment 

" His spirit has fled !" said Deerslayer, in a sup- 
pressed, melancholy voice. " Ahs me ! WeU, to 
this we must all come, sooner or later ; and he is 
happiest, let his skin be of what colour it may, who 
is best fitted to meet it. Here lies the body of, no 
doubt, a brave warrior, and the soul is already fly- 
ing towards its heaven or hell, whether that be a 
happy hunting-ground, or a place scant of game ; 
regions of glory, according to Moravian doctrine, 
or flames of fire ! So it happens, too, as regards 
other matters ! Here have old Hutter and Hurry 
Harry got themselves into a difficulty, if they 
haven't got themselves into torment and death, 
and all for a bounty that luck offers to me in what 
many would think a lawful and suitable manner. 
But not a farthing of such money shall cross my 
hand. White I was born, and white will I die ; 
clinging to colour to the last, even though the 
King's Majesty, his governors, and all his councils, 
both at home and in the colonies, forget from what 
they come, and where they hope to go, and all for 
a little advantage in warfare. No, no, warrior, hand 
of mine shall never molest your scalp, and so your 
soul may rest in peace on the p'int of making a 
decent appearance, when your body comes to join 
it in your own land of spirits." 

Deerslayer arose as soon as he had spoken. Then 
he placed the body of the dead man in a sitting 
posture, with its back against the little rock, taking 
the necessary care to prevent it from falling or in 
any way settling into an attitude that might be 
thought unseemly by the sensitive though wild 
notions of a savage. When this duty was per- 
formed, the young man stood gazing at the grim 
countenance of his fallen foe in a sort of melancholy 
abstraction. As was his practice, however, a habit 
gained by living so much alone in the forest, he then 
began again to give utterance to his thoughts and 
feelings aloud. 

" I didn't wish your life, red-skin," he said, " but 
you left me no choice atween killing or being 
killed. Each party acted according to his gifts, I 
suppose, and blame can light on neither. You were 
treacherous, according to your natur' in war, and 
I was a little over-sightful, as I'm apt to be in 
trusting others. WeU, this is my first battle with a 
human mortal, though it's not likely to be the last. 
I have f ou't most of the creature of the forest, such 
as bears, wolves, painters and catamounts, but this 
is the beginning with the red-skins. If I wa? 
Indian born, now, I might tell of this, or carry in 



158 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



the scalp, and boast of the expli'te afore the whole 
tribe : or if my iniiiiy had only been even a bear, 
'twould have been nat'ral and proper to let every- 
body know what had happened ; but I don't well 
see how I'm to let even Chingachgook into this 
secret, so long as it can be done only by boasting 
with a white tongue. And why should I wish to 
boast of it after all 1 It's slaying a human, although 
he was a savage ; and how do I know that he was 
a just Indian, and that he has not been taken 
away suddenly to anything but happy hunting- 
grounds 1 When it's onsartain whether good or evil 
has been done, the wisest way is not to be boastful. 
Still, I should like Chingachgook to know that I 
haven't discredited the Dela wares or my training." 



Soliloquy and reflection recei\ ed a startling in- 
terruption, however, by the sudden appearance of 
a second Indian on the lake shore, a few hundred 
yards from the point. This man, evidently another 
scout, who had probably been drawn to the place 
by the reports of the rifles, broke out of the forest 
with so little caution, that Deerslayer caught a view 
of his person before he himself was discovered. 
When the latter event did occur, as was the case a 
moment later, the savage gave a loud yell, which 
was answered by a dozen voices from different 
parts of the mountain-side. There was no longer 
any time for delay, and in another minute the boat 
was quittingthe shore under long and steady sweeps 
of the paddle. 




MY MISTAKES. 

[By BiCHABD "Whiteing.] 



J HE rector tells me I am wasting my 
time and my opportunities of doing 
good in the world. Good man, the 
rector. I have a great respect for 
him. Wonder if he is right. What 
do I do? As a matter of fact, 
nothing. I lounge through life. It 
is almost a pity my poor father left 
me so comfortably provided for. I 
might have had a career — might have got into 
Parliament, or written for the reviews. As it is, 
my only possible next step is marriage, and I am 
not so sure that that would be a lasting preserva- 
tive against ennui. It is all very well for the 
rector to talk, but what can I do ? That question 
ought to pose him. 

Mem. — Put it to him next time. 

Says that, with my means and my leisure, I 
might be of the greatest assistance in parish 
work. Pressed to be more explicit, says, " In 
visiting the poor." 

I look helpless and bewildered. 

" In making yourself acquainted with the wants 
and the weaknesses of that class," pursues the 
rector, " and doing something to remedy them." 

" I have always been ready to put money in the 
plate after charity sermons," I urge. " I can't do 
more." 

Rector says, " Yes, you can, you might distri- 
bute your gifts yourself, and the sympathy of your 
presence would enhance their value a hundred- 
fold ; or better still, keep your money in your 
pocket, and give only the money's worth. Only 
take care that you form your own estimate of the 
wants you mean to supply." 



Don't very well know what to say. It was 
rather stupid to have begun arguing the question. 
Observe, by way of saying something, " But people 
would laugh." 

He looks grave — is beginning to talk about my 
not doing justice to my own character by that 
plea. I promise to think of it and let him know. 
Exit rector. 

I'm booked for it. There was no escaping him. 
He came down with a visitation charge about lay 
helpers in one pocket, and a select list of his own 
poor in the other. I am to start next Thursday at 
ten, and to make notes of anything remarkable, to 
be shown to him. Begin to think I'm very ignorant. 

In the meantime I went out with my man 
.Joseph and a bag, to buy a few useful things to 
take with me as presents for the poor. Asked 
Joseph what he thought would be useful. He 
suggested " Dutch cheeses." Don't know any 
cheeses of that name. Besides, can't take pro- 
visions. They smell. 

Strolled into the dressing-case maker's, and 
asked the man there if he had anything that would 
do for the poor. He suggested a few cheap mono- 
grams. Joseph thought something more in the 
portable shaving apparatus way. Was shown a 
very capital little contrivance of this kind, with 
looking-glass in the lid. Handed it to Joseph. 
Fancy he grinned as he put it in the bag, but 
shouldn't like to be positive about it. 

The man suggested pen-holders, a memorandum 
book, and somebody's Diary (shilling size), half-a- 
dozen nail-trimmers, and a book-mark. 

Capital ! the very things. Had them all placed 
in the bag. 



MY MISTAKES. 



159 



Asked the man if he could think of anything 
else not in his particular line of trade. He ob- 
served that there was a brushmaker next door 
and perhaps — 

We went there. 

Ever so many curious things here, and all un 
doubtedly useful. The brushmaker said so. No- 
ticed one in particular, very remarkable — you 
turned a handle, and so on. Asked what it was. 
" An egg- whisk." 

Everybody eats eggs. Egg-whisks must be 
useful. Bought it. 

On the same principle, bought a butter cooler, 
cucumber slice, moderator lamp-brush, and velvet- 
faced hat-pad — a most useful contrivance for 
putting a gloss on the nap. Fancied I caught 
Joseph grinning again, when ordered to take them 
home ; but it is very difficult to be certain about 
these movements, he is so sly. 

At ten on Thursday morning, disguised myself 
in a cast-off suit, and went out with Joseph (out 
of livery) to Seven Dials. 

Seven Dials is near the Garrick Club. They 
appear to sell birds there. 

It is a place altogether beyond human concep- 
tion — that is to say, you "must take it in through 
the senses ; it cannot be described. The people 
lunch at barrows in the open air. 

The first name on the rector's list is " Timothy 
Baker, 23, Diving Bell Court," in this place. The 
numbers are not on the doors in Diving Bell 
Court ; they are in all sorts of astonishing places ; 
23, for instance, is on a bone hanging from the 
drawing-room window — an enormous bone. Should 
like Professor Owen to see it. Joseph said it is a 
false bone, but I think he overrates the intelli- 
gence of these people ; they are incapable of an 
anatomical forgery. I wonder what superstitious 
reverence attaches in their minds to the display 
of a bone. Joseph says it means that they buy 
bones there, and rags ; but that is obviously 
absurd. Who would buy what everybody must 
be so glad to get rid of for nothing 1 There are 
certainly a great many rags about the place, but I 
cannot accept Joseph's hypothesis. 

We walk into the passage at 23, and up-stairs. 
They appear to be fighting in the drawing-room ; 
and in the spare bed-room on the next floor, some 
one is hammering a hard metallic substance. 
Joseph suggests "tinker." In the servants' bed- 
rooms, above, all quiet. 

We tap at door of front room, where Baker lives, 
and after subdued shuffling of feet, soft woman's 
voice says, " Come in." 

DESCRIPTIVE MEMS. 

Don't believe there is a right angle in the place. 
Walls irregularly rounded into one another, with 



heaps of rags and rubbish stuffed into corners ; 
ceiling chijiped and plastered out of all semblance 
of a plane ; floor forming little hillock, with crest 
towards fire-place and foot towards door ; table 
neither in middle of room nor in any of corners — 
half-way between nothing and nothing, so to 
speak, with no whereabouts, in fact, admitting of 
rational statement ; chairs the same ; recess indi- 
cated by every instinct of nature as fitting one for 
the clock — occupied by broken bandbox ; clock 
itself resting on disused washstand ; only thing 
in its place a cobbler's stool, in front of sloping 
roof ; incongruity even here — tools in tea-tray, 
tea-service huddled together in disorder on lid of 
box. 

ADDITIONAL MEMS. 

Strange man squatting on corner of box. One 
would say some diabolical art employed on dress 
and person, to spoil symmetry and balance of 
nature. Wears a shoe and a slipper (both lefts). 
Solitary brace gives twisted appearance to trunk. 
Short black pipe draws mouth awry and spoils 
harmony of features. 

Woman not quite so uneven, standing near 
door, curtsies, and says, " Beg pardon, gentlemen. 
Thought you was the rent." 

I explain. " Have come to see if I can be of 
any help — at least have come to see them — mutual 
friend the rector — very glad to make their ac. 
quaintance," etc. 

Woman says, "Yes, certainly, sir," in some 
perturbation. " This is my husband, sir ; " points 
to uneven man. " We need it, I'm sure, sir " (the 
help). "Joe, hand the gentleman that chair by 
the tea-kettle." 

I should prefer to stand. I say so. 

NOTES OP CONVERSATION — VERBATIM. 

The man (Joe) : " There ain't much choice of 
chairs, anyhow;" pushes forward bottomless frame 
with foot. 

Self (amiably to woman) : " By-the-bye, won't 
you introduce me to your husband ? " 

Woman : " Oh, that's him, sir," pointing to 
imeven man ; " and them's our marriage lines," 
producing something — rather think a marriage 
certificate — from a tea-pot. Who wanted to see 
that 1 Not I, certainly. Strangely irrelevant ! 

Self (endeavouring to start new subject) : " And 
do you mean to live here always 1 " 

Woman : " We shall stay till they put the 
brokers in, sir." 

The man (Joe) : " The brokers ! " 

3£em. — This is a habit of his. He echoes last 
words in a meaning manner, as if he had some- 
thing serious to add to them. You wait for him, 
and he has nothing to add. Irritating ! 

Self (smiling) : " Well, now, you'll forgive me 
for saying so, but your mode of living seems very 



160 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



irregular. Don't you think if I were to give you 
a few simple articles of domestic use, it would' 
help you to bring your surroundings into a little 
better order 1 " 

The man ; " Order ! " Pay no attention to him 
this time. 

Woman says, " Oh thank you, sir. It's three 
weeks — nine shillings." I explain — remembering 
what rector said. " Oh, I'm not going to give you 
any money." 

Man repeats in muttering tone, "Money ! That's 
right, don't give 'em no money. They might get 
something to eat." Very unpleasant. 

Woman checks him, and says apologetically, to 
me, " He's always nasty when he don't get his two 
meals a-day." Not unnatural ; but why doesn't 



" A small contrivance for cleaning the chimney 
of the moderator," I explain as Joseph shows 
lamp-brush. 

Dead silence. They look neither grateful nor 
pleased. Then man says to woman, in sort of 
stage whisper, meant for me to catch — 

" Let's see ; I don't think we shall have any use 
for it yet. The cat ain't finished the shoe-brush 
you give her for dinner last week, has she, missis?" 

Mem. — Hate that man. 

"A Household 'Dairy,'" says Joseph— incorrectly 
enough — holding the diary up. 

Uneven man chuckles. " Something for dinner 
at last. There's a cheese a comin', missis." Winks 
at wife in a way that fills my whole soul with 
horror of him. 




' BCTTER COOLER,' I OBSERVE." 



he take his meals regularly, then 1 He ought to 
have had his breakfast long ago. 

Joseph unpacks parcel, brings out red earthen- 
ware jar, with moulded rose on lid for handle. 
I hold it up before them. " Butter cooler," I 
observe. 

Woman says nothing ; seems disappointed. 
Man remarks out of unoccupied corner of mouth, 
" Well, who'd have thought that was butter 1 " 

"Not butter," I reply; "butter cooler— thing 
for holding butter." 

" Oh, a thing for holding butter," he observes, 
in meaningless way. 

Hat-pad offers opportunity for conciliating him. 
" Dare say you have noticed," I say pleasantly, 
"what a roughness even the best of the old- 
fashioned brushes will leave on the nap. I am 
told this will entirely remove it." 

His reply is brutal. Throws hat-pad to his wife, 
and says, " Here, you take that, perhaps you wears 
a beaver — / don't." 

Most extraordinary person ; but I am deter- 
mined to show no annoyance. 



I lay rest of things on table- nail-trimmer, pen- 
holders, few point-preserver pencils, etc. etc. — and 
make little speech. "Shall come and see them 
again." " No thanks, I insist," etc. etc. Prepare 
to leave. 

Man's face suddenly assumes ferocious, though 
more natural, expression, as if he had hitherto 
been playing a part. He rises suddenly, sweeps 
presents to floor with one wave of his hand, and 
says vehemently (long speech, but I can't forget 
the words) — " Look here, master, me and my old 
woman ain't had more nor a cup o' tea and a slice 
o' dry bread for four-and-twenty hours, and this 
is what you brings to set us right again. You 
may mean well, but you've got a precious rum 
way o' showin' it ; for it isn't as though the things 
'ud pawn. They wouldn't lend yer tuppence on 
that lot, bless yer, if you was to pray to 'em. Then 
what earthly use are they to people like usl 
Where's the butter for the ' cooler,' as you calls it, 
and the eggs for the ' whisk 1 ' As for this little 
earthenware machine, it may do for bird's-eye, 
when I can get some pence to fiU it with ; and one 



THE BELLS. 



161 



•o' them other things might make a scoop for a 
pipe ; but is it posserble that you and your friend 
has come all this way to make a starvin' couple a 
present of a gallipot and a tobaccy stopper 1 " 

Starving ! Never thought of that. Good 
gracious ! Throw money on table. Leave hastily. 
-Man calls out after me down staircase, " You are 



a trump, sir ! " Indescribable perturbation of 
spirits. Home again. 

Mem. — Must try again. No idea there was so 
much misery in the world. Poor creatures ! and 
to offer them a butter cooler ! 

Mem. the Last. — Never too late to learn. Go 
round with the rector next time. 



THE BELLS. 

[By Edgak Allas Poe.] 




EAK the sledges 
with the bells — 
Silver bells ! 
What a world of 
merriment their 
melody fore- 
tells I 
How they tinkle, 
tinkle, tinkle. 
In the icy air of 
night f 
While the stars that 

oversprinkle 
All the heavens, 
seem to twinkle 
With a crystalline delight ; 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Eunic rhyme, 
' To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, beUs, beUs— 
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 

Hear the mellow wedding bells — 
Golden bells ! 
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight 
From the molten-golden notes ! 
And all in tune. 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while .she gloats 
On the moon ! 
Oh, from out the sounding cells. 
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! 
How it swells ! 
How it dwells 
On the Future ! how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 

Of the bells, beUs, bells— 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells— 
To the rliyming and the chiming of the bells. 
U 



Hear the loud alarum bells — 
Brazen bells ! 
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright ! 
Too much horrified to speak. 
They can only shriek, shriek. 
Out of tune. 
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic 
fire. 
Leaping higher, higher, higher. 
With a desperate clesire, 
And a resolute endeavour. 
Now — now to sit or never. 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh, the belLs, bells, bells ! 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of despair ! 
How they clang, and clash, and roar ! 
What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 
Yet the ear, it fully knows. 
By the twanging. 
And the clanging, 
How the danger ebbs and flows ; 
Yet the ear distinctly tells. 
In the jangling' 
And the wrangling. 
How the danger sinks and swells, 
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the 
bells— 
Of the bells— 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells— 
In the clamour and the clangour of the beUs ! 

Hear the tolling of the bells — 
Iron bells ! 
What a world of solemn thought their monody 
compels ! 
In the silence of the night 
How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 



162 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



For every sound that floats 


And he dances and he yells ; 


From the rust within their throats 


Keeping time, time, time. 


Is a groan : 


In a sort of Runic rhyme. 


And the people— ah, the people — 


To the paean of the bells — 


They that dwell up in the steeple, 


Of the bells ; 


All alone, 


Keeping time, time, time, 


And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, 


To the throbbing of the bells — 


In that muffled monotone. 


Of the bells, beUs, bellf, 


Feel a glory in so rolling 


To the sobbing of the bells ; 


On the human heart a stone — 


Keeping time, time, time. 


They are neither man nor woman — 


As he knells, knells, knells. 


They are neither brute nor human — 


In a happy Runic rhyme. 


They are Ghouls ! 


To the rolUng of the bells — 


And their king it is who tolls ; 


Of the bells, beUs, bells— 


And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls. 


To the tolling of the bells, 


A psean from the bells ! 


Of the bells, bells, bells, beUs, 


And his merry bosom swells 


Bells, bells, bells— 


With the piBan of the bells ! 


To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 




MY EXAMINATION. 

[From "Peter Simple." By Captain Marry at.] 




I'HE day after Captain Kearney's decease, 
his acting successor made his appearance 
ajj on board. The character of Captain 
Horton was well known to us from the 
complaints made by the oificers belonging 
to his ship, of his apathy and indolence ; 
indeed, he went by the sobriquet of "the 
Sloth." It certainly was very annoying to 
his officers to witness so many opportunities of 
prize-money and distinction thrown away through 
the indolence of his disposition. Captain Horton 
was a yoimg man of family, who had advanced 
rapidly in the service from interest, and from 
occasionally distinguishing himself. In the several 
cutting - out expeditions, on which he had not 
volunteered but had been ordered, he had shown, 
not only courage, but a remarkable degree of cool- 
ness in danger and difficulty, which had gained him 
much approbation : but it was said, that this cool- 
ness arose from this very fault — an unaccountable 
laziness. He would walk away, as it were, from 
the enemy's fire, when others would hasten, merely 
because he was so apathetic that he would not exert 
himself to run. In one cutting-out expedition in 
which he distinguished himself, it is said, that 
Laving to board a very high vessel, and that in a 
shower of giape and musketry, when the boat 



dashed alongside, and the men were springing up, 
he looked up at the height of the vessel's sides, and 
exclaimed, with a look of despair, " Must we 
really climb up that vessel's sides?" When he- 
had gained the deck, and became excited, he then 
proved how little fear had to do with the remark,, 
the captain of the ship falling by his hand, as he 
fought in advance of his own men. But this, 
peculiarity, which in a junior officer was of little 
consequence, and a subject of mirth, in a captain 
became of a very serious nature. The admiral was- 
aware how often he had neglected to annoy or cap- 
ture the enemy when he might have done it ; and 
by such neglect Captain Horton infringed one of 
articles of war, the punishment awarded to which 
infringement is death. His appointment, therefore,, 
to the Sanglier was as annoying to us, as his 
quitting his former ship was agreeable to those 
on board of her. 

As it happened, it proved of little consequence ; 
the admiral had instructions from home to advance 
Captain Horton to the first vacancy, which of 
course he was obliged to comply with ; but not 
wishing to keep on the station an officer who- 
would not exert himself, he resolved to send her 
to England with despatches, and retain the other 
frigate which had been ordered home, and which 



MV EXAMINATION. 



163 



we had been sent up to replace. We therefore heard 
it announced with feelings of joy, mingled with 
regret, that we were immediately to proceed to 
England. For my part I was glad of it. I had now 
served my time as midshipman, to within five 
months, and I thought that I had a better chance 
of being made in England than abroad. I was also 
very anxious to go home, for family reasons, which 
I have already explained. In a fortnight we sailed 
with several vessels, and directions to take charge 
of a large convoy from Quebec, which was to meet 
us off the island of St. John's. In a few days we 
joined our convoy, and with a fair wind bore up 
for England. The weather soon became very bad, 
and we were scudding before a heavy gale, under 
bare poles. Our captain seldom quitted the 
cabin, but remained there on a sofa, stretched at 
his length, reading a novel, or dozing, as he found 
most agreeable. 

I recollect a circumstance which occurred, which 
will prove the apathy of his disposition, and how 
unfit he was to command so fine a frigate. We 
had been scudding three days, when the weather 
became much worse. O'Brien, who had the middle 
watch, went down to report that "itblewveryhard." 

" Very well," said the captain ; " let me know if 
it blows harder." 

In about an hour more the gale increased, and 
O'Brien went down again. " It blows much harder, 
Captain Horton." 

" Very well," answered Captain Horton, turning 
in his cot ; " you may call me again when it Mows 
Imrder." 

At about six beUs the gale was at its height, and 
the wind roared in its fury. Down went O'Brien 
again. " It blows tremendous hard now, Captain 
Horton." 

" WeU, well, if the weather becomes worse " 

" It can't be worse," interrupted O'Brien : " it's 
impossible to blow harder." 

" Indeed ! Well, then," replied the captain, " let 
me know when it lulls." 

In the morning watch a similar circumstance 
took place. Mr. PhiUott went down, and said that 
several of the convoy were out of sight astern. 
" Shall we heave-to. Captain Horton ?" 

" 0, no," replied he. " She will be so uneasy. 
Let me know if you lose sight of any more." 

In another hour, the first lieutenant reported 
that " there were very few to be seen." 

"Very weU, Mr. Pliillott," replied the captain, 
turning round to sleep ; " let me know if you lose 
any more." 

Some time elapsed, and the first lieutenant 
reported, "that they were all out of sight." 

" Very well, then," said the captain ; " call me 
when you see them again." 

This was not very likely to take place, as we were 
going twelve knots an hour, and running away 



from them as fast as we could ; so the captain 
remained undisturbed until he thought proper 
to get up to breakfast. Indeed, we never saw 
any more of our convoy, but, taking the gale 
with us, in fifteen days anchored in Plymouth 
Sound. The orders came down for the frigate to 
be paid off, all standing, and re-commissioned. I 
received letters from my father, in which he con- 
gratulated me at my name being mentioned in 
Captain Kearney's despatches, and requested me 
to come home as soon as I could. The admiral 
allowed my name to be put down on the books of 
the guard-ship, that I might not lose my time, and 
then gave me two months' leave of absence. I 
bade farewell to my ship -mates, shook hands with 
O'Brien, who proposed to go over to Ireland pre- 
vious to his applying for another ship, and, with 
my pay in my pocket, set off in the Plymouth 
mail, and in three days was once more in the arms 
of my affectionate mother, and warmlj^ greeted by 
my father, and the remainder of my family. 

I remained at home until my time was complete, 
and then set off for Plymouth to undergo my ex- 
amination. The passing-day had been fix^d by the 
admiral for the Friday, and, as I arrived on 
Wednesday, I amused myself during the day, 
walking about the dockyard, and trying aU I 
could to obtain further information m my pro- 
fession. On the Thursday, a party of soldiers 
from the depot were embarking at the landing- 
place in men-of-war boats, and, as I understood, 
were about to proceed to India. I witnessed the 
embarkation, and waited tUl they shoved off, and 
then walked to the anchor wharf to ascertain the 
weights of the respective anchors of the different 
classes of vessels in the King's service. 

I had not been there long, when I was attracted 
by the squabbling, created by a soldier, who, it ap- 
peared, had quitted the ranks to run up to the tap 
in the dockyard to obtain liquor. He was very drunk, 
and was followed by a young woman with a child 
in her arms, who was endeavouring to pacify him. 

"Now be quiet, Patrick, jewel," said she, cling- 
ing to him ; " sure it's enough that you've left the 
ranks, and will come to disgrace when you get on 
board. Now be quiet, Patrick, and let us ask for 
a boat, and then perhaps the officer will think it 
was ail a mistake, and let you off aisy ; and sure, 
I'll spake to Mr. O'Rourke, and he's a kind man." 

" Out wid you, you cratur, it is Mr. O'Rourke 
you'd be having a conversation wid, and he be 
chucking you under that chin of yours. Out wid 
you, Mary, and lave me to find my way on board. 
Is it a boat I want, when I can swim like St. 
Patrick, wid my head under my arm, if it wasn't 
on my shoulders 1 At all events, I can wid my 
nappersack and musket to boot." 

The young woman cried, and tried to restrain 
him, but he broke from her, and, running down to 



164 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



the wharf, dashed off into the water. The young 
woman ran to the edge of the wharf, perceived him 
sinking, and, shrieking with despair, threw up her 
arms in her agony. The cliild fell, struck on the 
edge of the piles, turned over, and before I could 
catch hold of it, sank into the sea. " The child ! 
the child !" burst forth in another wild scream, and 
the poor creature lay at my feet in violent fits. I 
looked over, the child had disappeared ; but the 
soldier was still struggling with his head above 
water. He sank and rose again — a boat was 
pulling towards him, but he was quite exhausted. 
He threw back his arms as if in despair, and was 
about disappearing under the wave, when, no 
longer able to restrain myself, I leaped off the 
high wharf, and .swam to his assistance, just in 
time to lay hold of him as he was sinking for the 
last time. I had not been in the water a quarter 
of a minute before the boat came up to us, and 
dragged us on board. The soldier was exhausted 
and speechless. I, of course, was only very wet. 
The boat rowed to the landing-place at my request, 
and we were both put on shore. The knapsack 
which was fixed on the soldier's back, and his 
regimentals, indicated that he belonged to the 
regiment just embarked ; and I stated my opinion, 
that as soon as he was a little recovered, he had 
better be taken on board. As the boat which 
picked us up was one of the men-of-war boats, the 
officer who had been embarking the troops, and 
had been sent on shore again to know if there were 
any yet left behind, consented. In a few minutes 
the soldier recovered, and was able to sit up and 
speak, and I only waited to ascertain the state of 
the poor young woman whom I had left on the 
wharf. In a few minuses she was led to us by the 
warder, and the scene between her and her husband 
was most affecting. When she had become a little 
com.posed, she turned round to me, where I stood 
dripping wet, and, intermingled with lamentation 
for the child, showering down emphatic blessings 
on my head, inquired my name. " Give it to me ! " 
she cried ; " give it to me on paper, in writing, that 
I may wear it next my heart, read and kiss it every 
day of my life, and never forget to pray for you, 
and to bless you ! " 

" I '11 tell it you. My name " 

"Nay, write it down for me — vtrite it down. 
Sure, you '11 not refuse me. AU the saints bless 
you, dear young man, for saving a poor woman 
from despair ! " ~ 

The officer commanding the boat handed me a 
pencil and a card ; I wrote my name, and gave it 
to the poor woman ; she took my hand as I gave 
it, kissed the card repeatedly, and put it into her 
bosom. The officer, impatient to shove off, ordered 
her husband into the boat — she followed, clinging 
to him, wet as he was — the boat shoved off, and I 
hastened up to the inn, to dry my clothes. I could 



not help observing, at the time, how the fear of a- 
greater evil will absorb all consideration for a 
minor. Satisfied that her husband had not 
perished, she had hardly once appeared to re- 
member that she had lost her child. 

I had only brought one suit of clothes with me : 
they were in very good condition when I arrived, 
but salt water plays the deuce with a uniform. I 
lay in bed until they were dry ; but when I put- 
them on again, not being before too large for me, 
for I grew very fast, they were now shrunk and 
shrivelled up, so as to be much too small. My 
wrists appeared below the sleeves of my coat— my 
trousers had shrunk half way up to my knees— the 
buttons were all tarnished, and, altogether, I 
certainly did not wear the appearance of a 
gentlemanly, smart midshipman. I would have- 
ordered another suit, but the examination was to 
take place at ten o'clock the next morning, and 
there was no time. I was therefore obliged to 
appear as I was on the quarter-deck of a line-of- 
battle .ship, on board of which the passing was to 
take place. Many others were there to undergo 
the same ordeal, aU strangers to me, and, as I per- 
ceived by their nods and winks to each other, as 
they walked up and down in their smart clothes, 
not at all inclined to make my acquaintance. 

There were many before me on the list, and our 
hearts beat every time that a name was called, and 
the owner of it walked aft into the cabin. Some 
returned with jocund faces, and our hopes mounted 
■with the anticipation of similar good fortune ; 
others came out melancholy and crestfallen, and 
then the expression of their countenances was 
communicated to our own, and we quailed with 
fear and apprehension. I have no hesitation in 
asserting, that although " passing " may be a proof 
of being qualified, " not passing " is certainly no 
proof to the contrary. I have known many of the 
cleverest young men turned back (while others of 
inferior abilities have succeeded), merely from the 
feeling of awe occasioned by the peculiarity of the 
situation ; and it is not to be wondered at, when 
it is considered that all the labour and exertion of 
six years are at stake at this appalling moment. 
At last my name was called, and, almost breathless 
from anxiety, I entered the cabin, where I found 
myself in presence of the three captains who were 
to decide whether I was fit to hold a commission 
in his Majesty's service. My logs and certificates 
were examined and approved ; my time calculated, 
and allowed to be correct. The questions in. 
navigation which were put to me were very few, for 
the best of all possible reasons, that most captains 
in his Majesty's service know little or nothing of 
navigation. During their servitude as midshipmen, 
they learn it by rote, without being aware of the 
principles upon which the calculations they use are 
founded. As lieutenants, their services as to navi- 



MY EXAMINATION. 



105 



Ration are seldom required, and they rapidly forget 
all about it. As captains, their whole remnant of 
mathematical knowledge consists in being able to 
set down the ship's position on the chart. As for 
navigating the ship, the master is answerable ; and 
the captains not being responsible themselves, they 
trust entirely to his reckoning. Of course there 
are exceptions, but what I state is the fact ; and if 
an order from the Admiralty was given, that all 
captains should pass again, although they might 
acquit themselves very well in seamanship, nine- 
teen out of twenty would be turned back when 



it was the Earl of Sand\\ich of whom it is stated,, 
that, his ship being in a sinking state, he took a 
boat to hoist his flag on board of another vessel in 
the fleet, but a shot cutting the boat in two, and 
the -weight of his armour bearing him down, the 
Earl of Sandwich perished. But to proceed. 

As soon as I had answered several questions- 
satisfactorily, I was desired to stand up. The-, 
captain who had interrogated me on navigation^ 
was very grave in his demeanour towards me, but 
at the same time not uncivil. During his exami- 
nation, he was not interfered with by the other 




Mt Eiaminatioit. {Draim by W. Ralston.) 



they were questioned in navigation. It is from 
the knowledge of this fact that I think the service 
is injured by the present system, and the captain 
.should be held wholly responsible for the naviga- 
tion of his ship. It has been long known that the 
ofiicers of every other maritime state are more 
scientific than our own, wliich is easily explained, 
from the responsibility not being invested in our 
captains. The origin of masters in our service is 
singular. 'V\'Tien England first became a maritime 
power, ships for the King's service were found by 
the Cinque Ports and other parties — the fighting 
part of the crew was composed of soldiers sent on 
board. All the vessels at that time had a crew 
of sailors, with a master to navigate the vessel. 
During our bloody naval engagements with the 
Dutch, the same system was acted upon. I think 



two, who only undertook the examination in " sea- 
manship." The captain who now desired me to 
stand up, spoke in a very harsh tone, and quite 
frightened me. I stood up, pale and trembling, 
for I augured no good from this commencement. 
Several questions in seamanship were put to me, 
which I have no doubt I answered in a very 
lame way, for I cannot even now recollect what I 
said. 

" I thought so," observed the captain ; " I judged 
as much from your appearance. An officer who is 
so careless of his dress, as not even t-o put on a 
decent coat when he appears at his examination, 
generally turns out an idle fellow, and no seaman. 
One would think you had served all your time in 
a cutter, or a ten-gun brig, instead of dashing 
frigates. Come, sir, I'll give you one more chance." 



166 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



I was so hurt at what the captain said, that I 
could not control my feelings. I replied, with a 
-quivering lip, "that I had had no time to order 
another uniform " — and I burst into tears. 

" Indeed, Burrows, you are rather too harsh," 
said the third captain ; "the lad is frightened. 
Let him sit down and compose himself for a little 
while. Sit down, Mr. Simple, and we will try you 
again directly." 

I sat down, checking my grief and trying to 
recall my scattered senses. The captains, in the 
meantime, turning over the logs to pass away the 
time ; the one who had questioned me in naviga- 
tion reading the Plymouth newspaper, which had 
a few minutes before been brought on board and 
sent into the cabin. " Hey ! what's this ? I say. 
Burrows — Keats, look here," and he pointed to a 
paragraph. " Mr. Simple, may I ask whether it 
was you who saved the soldier who leaped off the 
wharf yesterday '] " 

" Yes, sir," replied I ; " and that's the reason why 
my uniforms are so shabby. I spoilt them then, 
and had no time to order others. I did not like to 
say why they were spoilt." I saw a change in the 
countenances of all the three, and it gave me 
courage. Indeed, now that my feelings had found 
vent, I was no longer under any apprehension. 



"Come, Mr. Simple, stand up again," said the 
captain, kindly ; " that is, if you feel sufficiently 
composed ; if not, we will wait a little longer. 
Don't be afraid, we ivish to pass you." 

I was not afraid, and stood up immediately. I 
answered every question satisfactorily ; and finding 
that I did so, they put more difficult ones. " Very 
good, very good, indeed, Mr. Simple ; now let me 
ask you one more ; it's seldom done in the service, 
and perhaps you may not be able to answer it. Do 
you know how to club-haid a ship 1 " 

"Yes, sir," replied I ; and I innnediately stated 
how it was to be done. 

" That is sufficient, Mr. Simple ; I wish to ask 
you no more questions. I thought at first you 
were a careless officer and no seaman : I now find 
you are a good seaman and a gallant young man. 
Do you wish to ask any more questions ? " con- 
tinued he, turning to the two others. 

They replied in the negative ; my passing certi- 
ficate was signed, and the captains did me the 
honour to shake hands with me, and wish me 
speedy promotion. Thus ended happily the severe 
trial to my poor nerves ; and, as I came out of the 
cabin, no one could have imagined that I had been 
in such distress within, when they beheld the joy 
that irradiated my countenance. 



A COLD RECEPTION. 

[From "Little Kate Kiiby." By F. W. Eoeinson.] 




'OOKING at Westmair's from Wat- 
ling Street was to set down the 
great house as not worth its salt. 
Strangers making a short cut to the 
Mansion House, or whose offices 
were in broader thoroughfares, might 
passed Westmair's all their lives 
without knowing it ; it was a strip of a 
liouse even where houses ran in strips as a rule. 
This was only Westmair's London office — a place 
which was handy for the London folk, but not 
imperative for Westmair's to possess — a crotchet of 
the firm, that had always had faith in City offices 
for anything. Westmair's proper was ten miles 
from London, and the Westmair's oils and the 
Westmair's polish, which had made the fortune of 
the family, were kept and mixed in large quan- 
tities miles away from the shadow of St. Paul's. 
This was only a house of samples, and order's and 
general correspondence. 

I turned the handle of the half-glass door — had 
the glass been cleaned since I was there last 1 — 
and i)assed into the stuffy shop. All was very 
misty, scarcely to be accounted for by the fog 



which had come in with me from the street. Per- 
haps there were tears in my eyes at the prospect 
of meeting my father after four long years — at 
the thought of beginning life again with him 
from that very moment, as it were. I went 
cautiously towards the counting-house at the end 
of the shop ; it went up three or four steps, and 
was shut from public gaze, when there was any 
representative of the ijublic to gaze at it, by a 
second glass front, behind which was a vsdre-blind, 
behind which was a lamp burning brightly, behind 
which was some one, with his back towards me, 
■writing at a desk. My father in his new post of 
principal cashier, indubitably ! 

When I was in London last, he had sat at a little 
desk below this window, with a gas jet above his 
premature greyness, and had blown verbal com- 
munications through a gutta-percha pipe into the 
office above him ; but times had changed, and now 
there was a little bald man with a bent back to 
blow at my father instead. 

I had not seen this last-named personage, and 
was proceeding boldly to the inner sanctum, wheii 
he piped out, " What's your business, young lady V 



A COLD RECEPTION. 



167 



aucl fooussed me with two liorn-rimmed spectacles. 
This old gentleman was the new clerk — the office 
and book-keeper. I knew all about him at once. 
My father's rise had left a vacancy in the post, 
which my grandfather had been the first of our 
family to fill ; there had been no more Kirbys to 
the good, hence an advertisement, and this worn- 
out, broken-down man at eighty pounds a year ! 
Westmair's never gave more than eighty pounds 
a year for their office-keeper — they called this 
little, dusky, ill-smelling shop an office — and 
possibly the situation was not worth more, for 
there had been hundreds always ready to jump at 
it. There had never seemed a great deal to do for 
the money — I had often caught my father dozing 
over the books, although it was his fixed idea that 
Westmair's worked him like a horse, and I believe 
this old man had been asleep before I had intruded 
on the premises. 

He was alive to business very quickly — juniors 
in office are frequently the most energetic of the 
staff. 

"What's your business, young lady 1 " 

" Oh, if you please, don't speak so loudly," I said, 
gesticulating towards the counting-house ; '' I want 
to surprise him." 

The office-keeper looked from me to the window 
over his head, and then back from the window to 
me, and glared. It was a full minute and a half 
before the idea seized him, and then he grinned 
from ear to ear, and turned me a little qualmish 
with three yellow tusks and a furry tongue, of 
which he made the most. 

" Oh, you know Mr. " 

" Of course I know him. I have come thousands 
of miles to see him ; all the way from the Cape of 
Good Hope ! " 

The book-keeper, or office-keeper, looked some- 
what amazed at this avowal, for he shut his 
mouth and glared at me again through his ugly 
spectacles. 

"You can go up, then," he said, dipping his 
pen into the ink and flourishing it towards the 
cotlnting-house, " if he expects you. Does he ex- 
pect you 1 " 

" To be sure he does." 

" I shouldn't have thought it of him," he mut- 
tered ; " in business hours, too — well ! " 

I did not stay to explain more fully my conduct 
to one who had evidently set me down for a very 
forward young woman. I was in a hurry to em- 
brace my dear dad, and to hear him murmur forth, 
" My darling Faith— I am so glad you have come 
back ! " He would be glad of that, I was very 
.sure. Man of many faults as he was, peevish, 
discontented, and eccentric, I had always thought 
that he had loved his girls in his way. My woollen 
dress did not betray me by any rustling, as I as- 
cended the steps, on the top of which my heart 



began beating nervously — I hardly knew for what 
reason. The dialogue beneath the counting-house 
window had not disturbed the studies of the cashier, 
who was very much bent over his desk, as I 
pushed open the door and stole in. It was a small 
counting-house, with an u'on safe on one side of 
the room, that looked respectable and solid. How 
quickly Westmair's made money in their quiet way 
was evident by that big safe, and by the cheques, 
which had come by the last post, and which the 
cashier was examining and endorsing before lock- 
ing up for the night, now that banking hours were 
over. I laid my hands upon his shoulders, and said — 

" I have come back, dear, as you asked me — 
back for good ! Don't be very much afraid, or 
very much scared, but take time to think that I 
am here, your little Faith ! " 

AU this was said in a low whisper, for I knew 
that my father was nervous, and I wished to sur- 
prise him, not to frighten him. But before it was 
all said, or almost before — for I have a faint recol- 
lection of going on with a few more words, even 
after my discovery — I had become aware that my 
hands were not resting on my father's shoulders, 
which were round shoulders, and weak, and would 
have given way more, and that in lieu of the scanty 
grey-flecked hairs of Mr. Kirby, there was rising 
up before me a cuiiier, darker, and more vigorous 
head of hair. 

" Oh, my ! " I gasped forth, and then a sunburnt 
face turned round as my hands dropped to my 
side, and my tongue stuck to the roof of my 
mouth. He was a young man of some four or five 
and twenty years of age before whom I was- 
standing — a principal, probably, a Westmair or 
a somebody of importance who had taken my 
father's post for a day or two. He was inclined 
to laugh at me and my embarrassment. I saw the 
curves of his mouth trying hard to keep them- 
selves down, and a pair of big brown eyes seemed 
laughing already. I was ashamed of myself, until 
I grew hot and indig-nant and " fussy," and thought 
that he might have shown more consideration for 
one who had made so egregious a blunder. He 
rose from his chair at last. 

" I beg your pardon," he said, seeing how 
grave I had become, " but I think this is the wrong ■ 
office. You — you'n find it higher up the street 
perhaps." 

He was a trifle confused himself, now, and gave 
an odd and impulsive scratch to his head, forcible 
but inelegant. 

" No, it is not the wi-ong office : I have been 
very foolish ; pray forgive my rudeness, sir, but 
I only expected to find one person here — not you, 
certainly," I stammered forth. 

" You have got in the wrong place, I think," was . 
his reply, "unless — oh, dear ! — whose place do you, 
want, may I inquire 1 " 



168 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



" Mr. Westmair's." 

"Oil!" 

He ran his fingers througli his hair again- 
taking two hands this time, and becoming 
thereby much fiercer in aspect— and then turned 
suddenly so pale that I thought he must be a 
-very delicate young man. 



He sat down in the chair which he had half 
pushed towards me a few minutes since, and which 
I had not occupied, and dashed at his cheques and 
papers with extraordinary interest, turning his 
back upon me and ignoring my presence altogether. 
It was very strange and startling, and I was begin- 
ning to think that all might not be well — that all 




"I LAID HY HANDS UPOM HIS SHOULDERS." {Braivu bij F. Barnard,) 



"You are Mr. Westmair, I presume? " I said. 

" My name is Westmair certainly — not one of 
the Westmairs, but an oifshoot — a family con- 
nection — a hanger-on — a — I hope you follow me — 
I hope you are — that is, that you are not — may 
I take the liberty of inquiring what is your 
name 1 " he asked with sudden energy and de- 
'cision. 

" My name is Kirby." 

"Oh— I see!" 



might be very ill for me — as some of the papers 
fluttered to the floor without the gentleman taking 
heed of them. He had been surprised — he was now 
confused. 

" My name is Kirby," I explained more fully, 
" and I have called at my father's request. It 
was his wish that I should come direct to the 
oflice." 

" Oh — indeed — confound it ! — was it though 1 " 
" Something has happened ! — he has left here 1 " 



A COLD EECEPTION. 



169 



" Yes — he has left," said Mr. Westmair, slowly ; 
" I'll tell you in a minute — you don't know any- 
thing, then ? " 

" Not anything — save that he was fortunate in 
life when he wrote last to me." 

"When was that r' 

" Some months ago, he wrote to me at Pieter- 
maritzburg. Oh, sir, he has not met with an 
accident — he is not dead ? You would not keep 
me in this suspense if he were dead, I am sure ! " 

" No, no — he is not dead, I am sorry to say — I 
mean I am glad to say. Pray sit down — pray 
compose yourself — I will tell you everything in a 
minute." 

He had forgotten that he was occupying the only 
chair in the room, and that I was leaning for 
support against a wainscot partition, yearning for 
the news, the bad news, which I knew now was on 
its way towards me. What could have happened 
since my father's stroke of good luck to have so 
wholly changed the scene 1 Was he really mad 
when he wrote last, and was his fortune only a 
dream 1 

" I — I hope that I have been patient, sir — but I 
. — I am very anxious," I hinted at last. 

He looked round quickly, then rose, snatched up 
his hat, and walked sharply from the counting- 
house, down the steps into the office, and into the 
street. 

Was he going to fetch my father, or what t I 
peered through the window above the wire-blind 
as he went striding along the shop. The street- 
door was opened before he had reached it, and a 
tall, swarthy man entered and regarded the cashier 
with amazement. 

" What's the matter 1 " 

" Nothing. That is, only Kirby's daughter from 
the Cape ; she is in the counting-house." 

" Well— you have told her, I suppose 1 " 

" No, I haven't — I couldn't ; upon my soul, I 
couldn't — I must leave it to you." 

" Why, this is cowardice." 

" Very likely ; I am naturally a coward. Tell 
her as gently as you can ; she seems a very nice 
girl, poor thing." 

« But " 

" But I'm hanged if I do all the dirty work in 
this place ; it does not suit me ; and I can't tell 
that girl, who came in just now, all life and hope, 
the truth about her father. Tell her yourself, 
Abe." 

The swarthy man seemed more astonished by 
the excitable behaviour of his cashier than by the 
news of my presence in his office. He went to the 
door and looked out in the fog after his refractory 
subordinate, then with slow, precise steps, he came 
towards me and my sinking heart. I wished that 
the other man had stopped to tell me all the truth, 
though he had taken longer time about it. I did 
v 



not like this hard-lined face, which seemed ad- 
vancing towards me like a fate, beyond my power 
to resist. 

The gentleman who entered the counting-house, 
and took the place of his eccentric cashier, was a 
man of thirty years of age, who might have told 
the world he was forty-five, without surprising it 
in the least. He was a tall stiff-backed man, with 
one of the saddest countenances I had ever seen, " 
stern it was as well as sad, in many respects, but 
it was not so wholly inflexible as I had fancied 
from my first look at it. He was very dark, vrith 
black eyes that seemed cold and unsympathetic, 
and unlike black eyes in general, and his close- 
shaven cheeks and chin did not give him one 
day's younger aspect. If he had shorn himself of 
all hirsute decoration for that purpose, it had 
been a mistake in art, and had only given him a 
grim Don Quixote looking head that was not 
pleasant to confront. He entered slowly, and 
after regarding me attentively for an instant, 
bowed, and pushed the chair over more towards 
me. 

"You are Miss Kirby," he said. "Sit down, 
please ; you had better sit down, I think." 

I sat down thus adjured. I was in no hurry for 
the news now. I knew that it would be bad 
enough, and there came over me the wish, 
strangely at variance with my late impatience, to 
delay the revelation which this man, in his cold 
hard tones, would give out to me, as the hammer 
of a beU might strike out its time of day. 

" My name is We.stmair — Abel Westmair, of the 
firm of Westmair and Son. I am the son," he 
added, as if by some mischance I should take him 
for his father. 

I bowed, but I could not speak to him. I was 
not awed by the greatness of his position, but by 
the consciousness of the terrible nature of his forth- 
coming revelation. 

" You are Miss Faith Kirby, I presume, to whom 
I wrote a few weeks since, suggesting that you 
should remain in Pietermaritzburg, and not come 
to London, as your father had previously desired," 
he continued. "It was his wish too, I believe, 
that you should stay ; but I was following out my 
own ideas, certainly not his." 

" Is he dead, then ? Oh, he is dead ! " I cried 
very quickly now. 

" Pardon me, but he is not dead. He how 

careless ! " and Mr. Westmair, Junior, stooped 
under the table, picked up several cheques and 
papers, and looked over them as he continued, 
"He is not dead, but in trouble." 

His black eyes were fixed upon me over the edge 
of the papers, and he was watching the effect with 
great attention. Was he breaking the news to me 
kindly or not 1 It was impossible to guess from 
his stolid countenance. 



170 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



" In trouble," I repeated mechanically. 

Mr. Westmair restored the cheques to their place 
from which his cashier had swept them in his 
hurry to depart, leaned against the table, crossed 
his legs, clasped his thin hands together, and once 
more looked at me with fixed intentness. 

" In trouble by his own acts — and by his own 
weakness, and consequently there is no one to 
blame but himself for all the misery that he has 
brought about." 

" Poor father ! is he very Ul — in very great 
trouble 1 " 

" I don't see that he deserves any pity from you 
— any more," he added, after a moment's pause, 
" than he deserves it from me." 

" Go on, sir." 

Mr. Westmair, having as he thought sufficiently 
prepared me, or having grown tired of his circum- 
locutory process of information, or having attended 
so far as he considered necessary to the injunctions 
of the young man who had beaten an uncere- 
monious retreat, delivered the rest of his com- 
munication at one shot. 

" Your father is in prison." 

There was a sudden singing in my ears, an up- 
heaving of the floor towards the ceiling, a merry- 
go-round of the iron safe, the counting-house 
Avindow, and Abel AVestmair, and then the mist 
was very dense and thick about me, as if a grand 
rush of all the fog in WatUng Street had streamed 
into the office, to hide me with my grief and shame 
from him who had told me all the news. 

# * *- # * * 

I was quite certain that I had fainted and made 
a scene, some minutes afterwards. I hated scenes 
and to have given way like this, and before this 
man, was humiliating to reflect upon, when the 
strength for reflection returned to me. I had 
always fancied that I was inclined to be firm, but 
this weakness convinced me that I was only a silly 
girl, after all, unable to bear up against trouble. 
Should I ever bear up against real trouble again — 
such real, downright trouble as this was ? 

" I shall be better in a minute," I said, though 
my lips trembled very much, and I am sure were 
as white as paper ; "it's — it's the long journey. I 
have been some time on board ship, and — and the 
journey was a fatiguing one." 

" It's a considerable distance from the Cape to 
London," Mr. Westmair observed. 

He had been bending over me along with his 
book-keeper, whom he had evidently called to my 
assistance. The cheques were all over the floor 
again, and at some stage or other of my con- 
valescence I had knocked a water-bottle and glass 
from his hand, the contents of which were all over 
the cheques. 

" Do you feel better now ? " he inquired, after I 
had dreamily regarded him for a minute or two. 



" I don't know ; I — I think I do. I suppose I 
fainted away 1 " 
" Yes." 

" Because — you told me that my father — hadn't 
this gentleman better go now 1 I am much obliged 

to him, but " 

" You can go, Simpson," said Mr. Westmair. 
" Not that it matters," he added, after Simpson 
had retired, " for he knows the whole story, which 
he could have told you much better than I. I am 
not used to this kind of thing." 

He said it in an aggrieved tone of voice, as if he 
had been imposed upon very much that afternoon. 
He stooped, picked up his cheques, regarded their 
damp condition ruefuUy, and finally directed his 
attention to myself again. 

" Will you not put your bonnet on 1 " he said, 
and I was conscious that that article of attire hacl 
been removed, and that my hair had become rough 
and tumbled. I made myself as tidy as possible, 
and as my agitation would allow, keeping my eyes 
upon him, feeling that I shotdd flinch no more, and 
be uncomfortable never again beneath his micro- 
scopic stare. 

" My father in prison ! " I said ; " in prison for - 
what 1 " 

"For robbing us." 

" My father turn robber — oh, I don't believe 
that! My father was honour itself, with aU his 
faults, and do you tell me — do you dare to tell me 
that he is a thief 1 " 

" I would certainly refrain from exciting myself 
in tills way," said Abel Westmair, coldly ; " it un- 
nerves you. ' 

" Tell me all you know — or, rather, all that you 
believe against him." 

I dare say that I was unpleasantly peremptory 
in my tone, but I was so beset wdth the conviction 
that my father had been the victim of a cruel plot, 
that I did not study the feelings, if he had any, of 
my companion. 

Mr. Westmair complied with my request. I was 
seated in the chair again, and he was leaning 
against the table in his old position. He spoke 
clearly and precisely, but betrayed no emotion at 
the story, or any further concern for my feelings. 
He was one of the great Westmairs, and I was one 
of the Kirbys — for two generations the Kirbys had 
been the servants of these people. 

"Your father was a clever book-keeper and an 
ingenious man at figures. When we made him 
cashier, and when a great deal of money passed 
through his hands, he turned his talents to a bad 
account, and robbed us systematically. We dis- 
covered it, and prosecuted him, as we should 
prosecute on principle any one gTiilty of a breach 
of trust in this establishment. He pleaded guilty 

and " 

" He pleaded guilty ! " I cried. 



KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT. 



171 



" Yes — the facts were too clear for any attempt 
at refutation — and he was sentenced to two years' 
imprisonment." 

" Where is he now ? " 

" In Hollo way Prison." 

" God help him ! — he was not guilty ; I am sure 
he was not guilty, Mr. Westmair." 

Mr. Westmair's face shadowed more at my per- 
sistence. 

" That is a reflection on my word — on the honour 
of the house, Miss Kirby," he said slowly ; " but 
you are suffering from natural excitement. What 
do you think of doing ? You have some money, I 
suppose, and friends in London, and — and so on 1 
Shall Simpson fetch a cab 1 " 

" No, su- — I can walk," said I, rising at this hint, 
-" do not trouble yourself about me in any way. Of 
what sum were you robbed 1 " 

".Eight hundred pounds." 

" And when was my father tried for the rob- 
bery ?" 

" The fifteenth of September." 

" I — I must get a newspaper, or something, and 
understand it for myself. I can't understand you," 
I added abruptly, " and I do not want." 

" Just as Miss Kirby pleases," he said, more 
coldly still. 

" You never took his part, or thought that he 
might have been innocent ; you believed every 
fact against an old servant at once. And yet his 
father before him had been in this firm." 

" There was a Kirby here before your father," 
said Abel Westmair, "but we were not called upon 
to regard the matter from a sentimental or a 
dramatic point of view. We were robbed, and we 
found out the thief, that is all. If he had been 
our dearest and nearest friend, it woidd have still 
been our duty to repay a base act of ingratitude 
with the law's justice and might. There was no 
malice in the matter, and so far as regards yourself, 
young lady, I, speaking for the firm, will add that 
we are sorry." 

He said it with some dignity, perhaps with as 
much kindness as it was in his nature to evince, 
but I saw in him only a hard master who had had 
no mercy on my father. I hated the man; I 
could have cursed him in my desolation, and for 
all the forced calmness which I had at last assumed 



I hated him ; but I was too proud to show that ha 
or his words had any power to move me, and as 
my reiteration of a belief in my father's innocence 
appeared to vex him slightly, I expressed again 
my firm conviction that my father had been 
wronged. 

He did not defend liimself, or offer any further 
explanation ; he regarded me with his old aggra- 
vating stolidity, and as I moved towards the door 
he opened it for me, standing thereat like a statue. 

I was going out in the world, not knowing 
which way to turn, wholly uncertain concerning 
my next step, more be^vildered by the strangeness 
of my position than I could have been aware 
at the moment, when I remembered that an 
all-important question had not been asked yet. 

" And Where's little Kate 1 " 

The question leaped from me with spasmodic 
force, and he elevated his eyebrows and stared at 
me harder than ever. 

'' Where's who 1 " he said. 

" Little Kate, my sister'?" 

" I didn't know that you had a sister. Really 
I have been quite in the dark as to your family 
connections." 

" And my father never spoke of her to you 1" 

" Not a word — why should he '? " 

" Great Heaven ! that chUd is alone in the world 
then. And she is only seventeen. Where can she be?" 

I went out of the counting-house, pondering on 
this mystery, on the impossibility of my finding her 
in the dark City of London, wherein I was myself 
submerged. 

I went out of Westmair and Son's with a heart 
that I thought was broken. My own position 
was precarious, but I had not time to think of it. 
Where was the child I had loved so much, and to 
whom I had been more like a mother than a sister 
after the real mother had died 1 She had been a 
wild, excitable, pretty girl, wayward, vain, fragile ; 
she had been my chief anxiety in going away; 
what was she now in my coming back again 1 
There were troubles and cares on all sides of me, 
as I crept out of the office of the Westmairs into 
the fog, which had become very thick and black 
with the night. All seemed as impenetrable as 
my own life ahead, and there was no seeing a step 
before me. 



KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT. 

[From the " Percy Reliques."] 



AN ancient story He tell you anon 
Of a notable prince, that was called King John ; 
And he ruled England with maine and with might. 
For he did gxeat wrong, and maintein'd little right. 



And He tell you a story, a story so merrye, 
Concerning the Abbot of Canterburye ; 
How for his house-keeping, and high renowne, 
They rode poste for him to fair London towne. 



172 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



An hundred men, the king did heare say, 
The abbot kept in his house every day ; 
And fifty golde chaynes without any doubt, 
In velvet coates waited the abbot about. 




"I FEARE THOa WORK'S! TEEASON AGAJKST MY CItOWNE." 

" How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee. 
Thou keepest a farre better house than mee. 
And for thy house-keeping and high renowne, 
I feare tliou work'st treason against my crowne." 

"My liege," quo' the abbot, "I would it were 

knowne, 
I never spend nothing but what is my owne ; 
And I trust your grace will doe me no deere 
For spending of my owne true-gotten geere." 

" Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe. 
And now for the same thou needest must dye ; 
For except thou canst answer me cjuestions three. 
Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie." 

"And first," quo' the king, "when I'm in this stead, 
With my crowne of golde so faire on my head. 
Among all my liege men, so noble of birthe. 
Thou must tell me to one penny what I am 
worthe. 

" Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt. 
How soone I may ride the whole world about, 
And at the third question thou must not shrink. 
But tell me here truly what I do think." 

"O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt, 
Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet ; 
But if you will give me but three weekes space, 
He do my endeavour to answer your grace." 



" Now three weeks space to thee will I give, 
And that is the longest time thou hast to live ; 
For if thou dost not answer my questions three. 
Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee." 

Away rode the abbot, all sad at that word, 
And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford ; 
But never a doctor there was so wise, 
That could with his learning an answer devise 

Then home rode the abbot, of comfort so cold- 
And he mett his shepheard agoing to fold ; 
" How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home, 
What newes do you bring us from good King 
John?" 

" Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give : 
That I have but three days more to live : 
For if I do not answer him questions three. 
My head mil be smitten from my bodie. 

" The first is to tell him there in that stead. 
With his crowne of golde so fair on his head. 
Among all his liege-men so noble of birth, 
To within one penny of what he is worth. 

'■ The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt, 
How soone he may ride this whole world about ; 
And at the third question I must not shrinke. 
But tell him there truly what he does thinke." 





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"I HATE BUT THREE DAYS MORE TO LIVE." 

"Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear 

yet, 

That a fool he may learne a wise man witt % 
Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel, 
And I '11 ride to London to answere your quarrel. 



KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT. 



173 



*' Nay ; f rowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee, 
I am like your lordship, as ever may bee : 
And if you wiU but lend me your gowne. 
There is none shall knowe us in fair London 
towne." 

*' Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have, 
With sumptuous array most gallant and brave ; 
With crozier, and mitre, and rochet, and cope, 
Fit to appeare 'fore our father the pope." 



— Now secondly tell me, without any doubt. 
How soone I may ride this whole world about." 

" You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, 
Until the next morning he riseth againe ; 
And then your grace need not make any doubt 
But in twenty-four hours you'U ride it about." 

The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, 
" I did not think it could be gone so soone ! 




'I'm his pooe shepheakd, as plain you mat see.'' (Drawnhy W. Ralston.) 



" Now welcome, sire abbot," the king he did say, 
" 'Tis well thou 'rt come back to keepe thy day ; 
For and if thou canst answer my questions three, 
Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee. 

■''And first, when thou seest me here in this 

stead, 
With my crown of golde so fair on my head, 
Among all my liege-men so noble of birth. 
Tell me to one penny what I am worth." 

"For thirty pence our Saviour was sold 
Among the false Jewes, as I have bin told : 
And twenty-nine is the worth of thee. 
For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than 
hee." 

The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel, 
•" I did not think I had been worth so littel ! 



— Now from the third question thou must not 

shrinke, 
But teU me here truly what I do thinke." 

" Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry ; 
You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterbury ; 
But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see, 
That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee." 

The king he laughed, and swore by the masse, 
" He make thee lord abbot this day in his place ! " 
" Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede, 
For alacke I can neither write, ne reade." 

" Four nobles a week, then, I vrill give thee, 
For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee : 
And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home, 
Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King 
John." 



174 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



SLEIGHING IN THE SNOW. 

[Prom "A Eide to Khiva." By Colonel Feed Buenabt.] 




T WAS called 
JL at daybreak 
the following 
morning. The 
few prepara- 
tions required 
to be made were 
soon finished, 
and I found my- 
self in my new- 
ly - purchased 
sleigh, which 
had been tho- 
roughly re- 
paired, driving 
along in the 
direction of 
Smweshlaev- 
the first 



.^^2>. 



station arrived 
at when travel- 
ling towards 
Orenburg, and 
about twenty 
versts from 
"^^^^^ Samara. The 

country was a dead flat, and of a most uninteresting 
description. A few trees scattered here and there 
made by their scarcity the bleak and naked ap- 
pearance of the adjacent surroundings the more 
conspicuous. Naught save snow here, there, and 
everywhere. No signs of life save a few melan- 
choly crows and jackdaws, which from time to 
time made a short flight to stretch their pinions, 
and then returned to perch by the side of some 
kitchen chimney, and extract from the rapidly 
rising smoke as much warmth as possible. The 
route much resembled the road between Sizeran 
and Samara ; for, indeed, in winter-time every- 
thing in Russia is either aUke or hidden from view, 
buried beneath its blanch white pall of snow. 

The station-houses along the line of road I was 
then travelHng were fairly clean. The furniture 
generally consisted of a horsehair sofa and some 
wooden chairs, whilst a few coloured prints of the 
Emperor and other members of the Royal Family 
of Russia were hung about the walls, and made up 
the attempt at decoration. A book in which to 
inscribe complaints was also kept, and any traveller 
who felt himself aggrieved could -write down his 
grievance, which would be subsequently investi- 
gated by an inspector, whose duty it was to per- 
form this task once a month. I sometimes used 
to while away the time whilst waiting for fresh 



horses by turning over the pages of the grumblers' 
book— occasionally, indeed, having to add my own 
grievance to the list— the badness of the horses 
being a frequent source of annoyance to the 
passengers. 

I reached Bodrovsky, the next station, a little 
after sunset, only halting sufficient time to drink a 
few glasses of tea, in order the better to resist the 
rapidly-increasing cold, the thermometer having 
fallen to 25° below zero (Reaumur), and started 
again for Malomalisky, about 26J versts distant. 
I hoped to reach this point about 9 p.m., and there 
refresh the inner man before proceeding on my 
journey. It is hungry work, sleigh-driving in the 
winter, and the frame requires a good deal of sup- 
port in the shape of food in order to keep up the 
vitality. However, it is no good forming any plans 
in which time is concerned in Russia. The natives 
have a Mohammedan-like indifference to the clock, 
and travellers must succumb, however unvsdllingly, 
to the waywardness of the elements. 

Presently I became aware by some pistol-Hke 
cracks — the sounds of the whip reverberating from 
the backs of my horses— that there was a difference 
of opinion between them and the driver. A blind- 
ing snow had come on ; the darkness was so great 
that I could not distinguish the driver. Our jaded 
animals were floundering about in all directions, 
vainly endeavouring to hit off the original track, 
from which it was evident that they had strayed. 
The man now got down from his box, and, leaving 
me in charge of the horses, made a wide cast round 
on foot, hoping to discover the road. 

The snow all this time was falling in a manner 
unknown to people in this country. It was piling 
itself up against the sleigh in such volumes that I 
foresaw, if we did not speedily reach the station, 
we should inevitably be buried alive. After about 
half- an hour's search the driver returned, and 
said to me, " Oh, Lord ! — you are a misfortune. 
Let us turn back." I replied, "If you have lost 
the way, how can you turn back % Besides, if you 
know the road, we are now half-way, so it is just as 
easy to go forward as to return." 

He had found the track, but by this time the 
sleigh was so buried in the snow that the horses 
could not stir it. There was only one thing to do, 
which was for me to get out and help him to lift 
the vehicle, when we eventually succeeded in re- 
gaining the path. 

The fellow was a good deal surprised at this 
action on my part, for Russian gentlemen as a rule 
would almost prefer to be frozen to death than do 
any manual labour. Presently he said, " One of 



SLEIGHING IN THE SNOW. 



175 



noble birtli, what shall we do now ? " " Go on.'' 
But at last, finding that it was no use, and that 
the snow in front of us had drifted over the track 
to a much greater extent than over that part of the 
road which we had left behind, I was reluctantly- 
obliged to give the order to return. This he obeyed 
vnth the greatest alacrity, the horses as weU as 
the driver, showing by their redoubled exertions, 
that they were well aware of the change of direction. 
There is nothing so disheartening to a traveller 
who wishes to get forward rapidly as the frequent 
snow-storms which occur in winter in this jsart of 
Russia. Days upon days of valuable time are thus 
lost, whilst any attempt to force a way through at 
aU hazards, will only lead to the extreme pro- 
bability of your being frozen to death, without 
enabling you in any way to accelerate your 
arrival. The inspector at the station laughed 
heartily when we returned, and said that.it was 
very fortunate I had not to pass the night out 
in the open. He had previously advised us not 
to attempt the journey that evening, but wait for 
daylight. However, I did not believe him, and 
consequently had to buy my experience. 

Of all the countries in which it has been my fate 
to travel, the land where curiosity is most rampant 
is decidedly Russia. Whether this comes from a 
dearth of public news and subjects for conversa- 
tion, or from something innate and specially 
characterising the Sclavonic race, it is difficult 
to say. The curiosity of the fair sex, which in 
other countries is supposed to be the ne 2}his ultra 
of inquisitiveness, is in the land of the Tzar far 
outstripped by the same peculiarity in the male 
inhabitants. Of course I am alluding more par- 
ticularly to the lower orders and not to the upper 
classes, though even with the latter it is a feature 
that cannot help striking the foreigner. 

The inspector was a thorough old conservative, 
and greatly mourned the new order of things, and 
that he could no longer demand the traveller's 
podorojnaya, or pass. " Why," he said, " I do not 
know whom I am addressing ; I may be talking to 
a shopkeeper, and call him Your Excellency, or 
addi'ess a Grand Duke as simply one of noble 
birth." " Yes," chimed in some travellers who 
were benighted like myself, "and rogues can 
travel now, for they are not obliged to go to the 
police." I was rather amused at this. There was 
decidedly a wish on the part of the other way- 
farers to know who I was ; so, pulling my English 
passport out of my pocket, I said to the inspector, 
" There, you can look at my podvrojnaya" He 
turned it upside down ; and then said, " Ah, yes ! 
you are a Greek, but what a beautifid crown that 
is on it ! You must be some great personage, going 
to Tashkent." " Perhaps so," I replied, assuming 
an air of importance. " There is a royal highness 
coming through soon," said the inspector ; " I heard 



it from a pedlar who went by yesterday ; and one 
of his officers is travelhng on in front to make pre- 
parations. Perhaps his Excellency," turning to 
me, " is that gentleman." " No," was my answer ; 
when one of the company, who appeared a little 
annoyed at my evident unwillingness to undergo 
this process of pumping, remarked that there had 
been several robberies in the neighbourhood. 
" Yes, there have," said another, and the assem- 
blage all looked at me as much as to say, " You 
are the man ; now, do not deny it ; we shall not 
believe you." 

So the evening wore on, till one by one we laid - 
om'selves down to rest, when a sound, very sugges- 
tive of a pigsty, awoke the echoes of the night. On 
looking out at daybreak, I found that the mnd had 
subsided, and the thermometer had risen to within 
a few degrees of freezing-point. There was no 
time to be lost, particularly as I could not tell how 
long this exceptional order of things would last ; 
so, ordering fresh horses, I recommenced the 
journey. A great deal of snow had fallen 
during the night, and it was fortunate that we 
had returned to the station, as in some places, 
only a little distance beyond the spot from which 
my driver had retraced his steps, were drifts eight 
and ten feet deep. " Praise be to God that we did 
not fall in !" said my Jehu, pointing them out to 
me as he drove by ; " I might have been frozen." 

A single line of telegraph ran along the side of 
the road, being part of the wire which connects 
the capital with Tashkent. The high poles from 
which the line was suspended served as a capital 
landmark to point out the route which we must 
foUow. Presently the scenery changed, and some 
plantations here and there relieved the eye, tired 
by continually gazing over the endless waste. Low 
trucks on wooden runners, drawn by two or four 
horses, and laden with iron rails for the construc- 
tion of the railway, encountered us on the path. 
In many places we had great difficulty in passing, 
owing to the narrowness of the road. My Jehu's 
vocabulary of expletives was more than once 
thoroughly exhausted upon the heads of the 
sleighmen. They had, as it appeared, purposely 
tried to upset our sleigh by charging it with their 
heavily-laden vehicles. 

A few stations further on the road I met General 
Kryjinovsky, the Governor of the Orenburg district, 
who was on ids way to St. Petersburg, accompanied 
by his wife and daughter. He had highly dis- 
tinguished himself in his early career in Turkistan, 
and to this he owes the important post entrusted 
to his charge. He is a little spare man, with a keen 
glance and determined eye, and if I might be 
allowed to judge from our brief interview, he was 
not the sort of individual who would care to give 
me much information about my journey, of which 
he did not seem to approve. 



176 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



" You must remember," he said, " on no account 
are you to go to India or to Persia. You must 
retrace your steps to European Russia along the 
same road by which you go. You speak Russian, 
I hear 1 " he suddenly remarked, looking fixedly at 



extent had let the cat out of the bag. He now 
observed, " Oh, I only supposed you did so." In 
the meantime his wife and daughter were taking 
off their furs in the same apartment. The ac- 
commodation for ladies is of the most meagre kind 
in these roadside stations, there are no retiring- 
rooms whatever, and the fair sex have in this, 
respect to put up with much more discomfort than, 
the men. 

As I drove away after our interview I pondered 
the general's words well over in my mind — " You. 
must not go to India ; you must not go to Persia ;, 
and you must retrace your steps exactly by the- 




' They kicked ani> jumped." 



me. Our conversation up to that time had been 
carried on in French. 

" Yes," I replied ; " but how clever you are to 
have made this discovery, considering that we have 
not spoken one word in your language, and you 
have never seen me before. " This took the general 
a little aback, and he slightly changed colour. 

He had evidently received a communication from 
some authorities at St. Petersburg, to the effect 
that I was acquainted with Russian, generally an 
unknown tongue to foreigners, and to a certain 



same route you go." It was really very extra- 
ordinary to see how much interest this paternal 
government in St. Petersburg took in my move- 
ments. Here I was travelling in a country where 
the rulers defend the despoliation of the inhabi- 
tants in Central Asia, and the annexation of their 
territory, on the ground that it is done for the 
purpose of Christianity and civilisation. And yet 
the government of this civilised nation made as 
much fuss about my travelling in Central Asia 
as any mandarin at Pekin, whose permission I 



SLEIGHING IN THE SNOW. 



177 



might have had to ask for a journey through the 
Celestial Empire. 

It will take the Eussians a long time to shake 
oti' from themselves the habits and way of 
thought inherited from a barbarous ancestry. 
Grattez le Russe et vous trouverei le Tartare, f« cVsi 
■am hmdte aux Tartares. This is a hackneyed 
expression ; however, it is a true one. It requires 
but a little rubbing to disclose the Tartar blood 
so freely circulated through the Muscovite veins. 

Some distance further on the road I observed a 
strong disinclination evinced by the man whose 
business it was to drive me to the next halting- 
place. He was a fresh-looking, sturdy fellow, and 
I could not understand the evident dislike he had 
for his fare, the more particularly as I had made 
a point of well tipping the respective drivers in 
order to get on as fast as possible. " What is it 1 " 
I inquired of the station-master. " Is he ill 1 " 
" No," was the reply ; "he was married yesterday, 
that is all." It seemed somewhat cruel to tear 
away the poor fellow from the conjugal bliss that 
awaited him in the next room, but there was no 
help for it. No other driver could be procured, 
and the duty must be performed. If I had not 
before remarked that there was something, amiss 
with the fellow, I should very soon have found it 
out by the extraordinary motions his horses im- 
parted to the sleigh. 

He lashed the animals. They kicked and 
jumped, performing antics which slightly re- 
sembled the convulsive twitcliings of an indi- 
vidual suifering from St. Vitus. I was thrown 
in the air and caught again by the rebound ; 
upset, righted, and upset again, without having 
had time to realise the first disaster ; cartridge- 
cases, gun, saddle-bags, and self, all flying in the 
air at the same instant, the enamoured driver 
forgetting everything in the absorbing influence 
•of his passion, save the desire to return to the 
side of his adored Dulcinea. 

I once rode a camel in love ; this was in the 
Great Korosko desert. He was known by the 
name of the Magnoon, or the Mad Camel ; but 
whether on account of his susceptible heart or not 
I cannot say. I shall never forget on one occasion, 
when the amorous quadruped had accidentally 
become separated from the Juliet of his aftec- 
tion, a sweet creature, that carried the sheik of 
our party. She was very old, but this was no 
deterrent in the eyes of her ardent admirer, who 
was miserable when not at her side. I had ridden 
on a little ahead of the party when the voice of 



Juliet, who was being saddled in the desert, and 
who vented her woes in weird squeals and 
sounds appropriate to her race, was wafted by 
the breeze to the attentive ears of her admirer. 
He was a very long and a very tall camel, and in 
an instant he commenced to rear. My position 
became both ludicrous and precarious. Ludicrous 
to every one but myself, who was interested in the 
matter more than anyone except Komeo. I found 
that I was, as it were, slipping down the steep roof 
of a house, with nothing to hold on by but a little 
peg about four inches long, which projected from 
the front part of the saddle. 

It was an awful moment, but he did not keep 
me long in suspense. Performing an extraordinary 
movement, he suddenly swung himself round on 
his hind legs, and ran as fast as ever he could in 
the direction of the fair enticer. A camel's gait is 
a peculiar one ; they go something like a pig with 
the fore, and like a cow with the hind legs. The 
motion is decidedly rough. At this moment my 
steed was seized with a strange and convulsive 
twitching which threatened to capsize the saddle. 
My position became each second more ridiculous 
and appalling. I was a shuttlecock, Romeo's back 
was the battledore. At every moment I was hurled 
into the air. The fear of missing the saddle and 
falling on the ground was continually in my mind. 
The little projecting knob, which seemed an instru- 
ment of torture like the impaling sticks used to 
punish the unfaithful in China, was also a source 
of consternation. I do not think I have ever felt a 
more thorough sensation of relief, than when, on 
arriving at our encampment, Romeo halted by the 
side of his Juliet. 

The episode with Romeo had been an alarming 
one. It was nothing to being driven by this 
amorous young Russian as a charioteer. At last, 
after having been deposited with all my luggage 
for the third time in the snow, I resolved to appeal 
to his feelings by a sharp application of my boot 
" Why do you do that ?" he said, pulling up short. 
" You hurt, you break my ribs." " I only do to 
you what you do to me," was my reply, " you hurt, 
you break my ribs, and property besides." 

" Oh, one of noble birth," ejaculated the fellow, 
" it is not my fault. It is thou, oh, moody one ! " 
— to his offside horse, accompanied by a crack from 
his lash. " It is thou, oh, spoilt and cherished 
one!" — to his other meagre and half -starved 
! quadruped. (Whack !) " Oh, petted and caressed 
; sons of animals" (whack, whack, whack!), "I will 
teach you to upset the gentleman ! " 




178 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



MY AUNT. 

[By Oliver Wendell Holmes.] 



aY aunt ! my dear unmarried aunt ! 
Long years have o'er her flown, 
Yet still she strains the aching clasp 
That binds her virgin zone ; 
I know it hurts her — though she looks 

As cheerful as she can ; 
Her waist is ampler than her life, 
For Ufe is but a span. 

My aunt ! my poor deluded aunt ! 

Her hair is almost grey ; 
Why will she train that winter curl 

Li such a spring-like way 1 
How can she lay her glasses down. 

And say she reads as well. 
When, through a dovible convex lens, 

She just makes out to spell ? 

Her father — grandpapa ! forgive 

This erring lip its smiles — 
Vowed she should make the finest girl 

Within a hundred miles ; 
He sent her to a stylish school ; 

'Twas in her thirteenth June ; 
And with her, as the rules required, 

" Two towels and a spoon." 



They braced my aunt against a board, 

To make her straight and tall ; 
They laced her up, they starved her down, 

To make her light and small. 
They pinched her feet, they singed her hair^ 

They screwed it up with pins : — 
O, never mortal suffered more 

In penance for her sins. 

So, when my precious aunt was done. 

My grandsire brought her back ; 
(By daylight, lest some rabid youth 

Might follow on the track ;) 
" Ah ! " said my grandsire, as he shook 

Some powder in his pan, 
"What could this lovely creature do 

Against a desperate man ! " 

Alas ! nor chariot, nor barouche. 

Nor bandit cavalcade. 
Tore from the trembling father's arms 

His all-accomplished maid. 
For her how happy had it been '. 

And heaven had spared to me 
To see one sad, ungathered rose 

On my ancestral tree. 



THE BRAVEEY OF BAILIE NICOL JAEVIE. 

[From "Rob Eoy." By Sir Walter Scott.] 




i^BOUT half a mile's riding, after we 
if crossed the bridge, placed us at the 
I igj^T^ door of a jaublic-house, where we were 
' to pass the evening. It was a hovel rather 
worse than better than that in which we 
had dined ; but its little windows were 
lighted up, voices were heard from withiuj 
and all intimated a prospect of food and 
.shelter, to which we were by no means indifferent. 
Andrew was the first to observe that there was a 
peeled willow-wand placed across the half-open 
door of the little inn. He hung back, and advised 
us not to enter. " For," said Andrew, " some of 
their chiefs and grit men are birling at the usque- 
baugh in by there, and dinna want to be disturbed ; 
and the least we'll get, if we gang ram-stam in on 
them, will be a broken head, to learn us better 
havings, if we dinna come by the length of a cauld 
dirk in our wame, whilk is just as likely." 
I looked at the Bailie, who acknowledged, in a 



whisper, "that the gowk had some reason for 
singing, ance in the year." 

jMeantime a staring half-clad wench or two came 
out of the inn and the neighbouring cottages, on 
hearing the sound of our horses' feet. No one 
bade us welcome, nor did any one offer to take our 
horses, from which we had alighted ; and to our 
various inquiries, the hopeless response of " Ha 
niel Sassenach " was the only answer we could 
extract. The Bailie, however, found (in his ex- 
perience) a way to make them speak English. " If 
I gie ye a bawbee," said he to an urchin of about 
ten years old, with a fragment of a tattered plaid 
about him, " will you understand Sassenach 1 " 

" Ay, ay, that will I," replied the brat in very 
decent English. 

" Then gang and tell your mammy, my man,, 
there's twa Sassenach gentlemen come to speak 
wi' her." 

The landlady presently appeared, with a lighted 



THE BRAVERY OF BAILIE NICOL JARVIE. 



179 



piece of split fir blazing in her hand. The turpen- 
tine in this species of torch (which is generally 
dug from out the turf-bogs) makes it blaze and 
sparkle readily, so that it is often used in the 
Highlands in lieu of candles. On this occasion 
such a torch illuminated the wild and anxious 
features of a female, pale, thin, and rather above 
the usual size, whose soiled and ragged dress, 
though aided by a plaid or tartan screen, barely 
served the purposes of decency, and certainly not 
those of comfort. Her black hair, which escaped 
in uncombed elf-locks from under her coif, as well 
as the strange and embarrassed look with which 
she regarded us, gave me the idea of a. witch dis- 
turbed in the midst of her unlawful rites. She 
plainly refused to admit us into the house. We 
remonstrated anxiously, and pleaded the length of 
our joiu-ney, the state of our horses, and the cer- 
tainty that there was not another place where we 
could be received nearer than Callander, which 
the Bailie stated to be seven Scots miles distant. 
How many these may exactly amount to in English 
measurement I have never been able to ascertain, 
but I think the double ratio may be pretty safely 
taken as a medium computation. The obdiu'ate 
hostess treated our expostulation with contempt. 
"Better gang farther than fare waur," she said, 
speaking the Scottish Lowland dialect, and being 
indeed a native of the Lennox district. "Her 
house was taen up wi' them wadna like to be 
intruded on wi' strangers. She didna ken wha 
mair might be there — redcoats, it might be, frae 
the garrison." (These last words she spoke under 
her breath, and with very strong emphasis.) " The 
night," she said, "was fair abune head — a night 
amang the heather wad caller our bloods — we 
might sleep in our claes as mony a gude blade 
does in the scabbard — there wssna muckle flow- 
moss in the shaw, if we took up our quarters right, 
and we might pit up our horses to the hiU, naebody 
wad say naething against it." 

" But, my good woman," said I, while the Bailie 
groaned and remained undecided, " it is six hours 
since we dined, and we have not taken a morsel 
since. I am positively dying with hunger, and 
I have no taste for taking up my abode supperless 
among these mountains of yours. I positively 
must enter ; and make the best apology you can 
to your guests for adding a stranger or two to 
their number. Andrew, you wiU see the horses 
put up." 

The Hecate looked at me with surprise, and then 
ejaculated, "A wilfu' man will hae his way — them 
that will to Cupar maun to Cupar ! To see thae 
English belly-gods — he has had ae fu' meal the 
day ah-eady, and he'll venture life and liberty 
rather than he'll want a het supper ! Set roasted 
beef and pudding on the opposite side o' the pit o' 
Tophet, and an EngUshman will mak a spang at 



it. But I wash my hands o't. Follow me, sir" 
(to Andrew), " and I'll show ye where to pit the 
beasts." 

I own I was somewhat dismayed at my land- 
lady's expressions, which seemed to be ominous of 
some approaching danger. I did not, however, 
choose to shrink back after having declared my 
resolution, and accordingly I boldly entered the 
house ; and after narrowly escaping breaking my 
shins over a turf back and a salting-tub, which 
stood on either side of the narrow exterior passage, 
I opened a crazy half-decayed door, constructed 
not of plank, but of wicker, and, followed by the 
Bailie, entered into the principal apartment of this 
Scottish caravansary. 

The interior presented a view which seemed 
singular enough to southern eyes. The fire, fed 
with blazing tm-f and branches of dried wood, 
blazed merrily in the centre ; but the smoke, 
having no means to escape but through a hole in 
the roof, eddied round the rafters of the cottage, 
and hung in sable folds at the height of about 
five feet from the floor. The space beneath was 
kept pretty clear, by innumerable currents of air 
which rushed towards the fire from the broken 
panel of basket-work which served as a door, from 
two square holes, designed as ostensible windows, 
through one of which was thrust a plaid, and 
through the other a tattered great-coat ; and more- 
over, through various less distinguishable apertures 
in the walls of the tenement, which, being built of 
round stones and turf, cemented by mud, let in the 
atmosphere at innumerable crevices. 

At an old oaken table, adjoining to the fire, sat 
three men, guests apparently, whom it was impos- 
sible to regard with indifference. Two were in 
the Highland dress ; the one, a little dark-com- 
plexioned man, with a lively, quick, and irritable 
expression of featru-es, wore the trews, or close 
pantaloons, wove out of a sort of chequered stock- 
ing stuff. The BaUie whispered me that "he 
behoved to be a man of some consequence, for 
that naebody but their Duinh^wassels wore the 
trews ; they were ill to weave exactly to their 
Highland pleasure." 

The other mountaineer was a very tall, strong 
man, with a quantity of reddish hair, freckled 
face, high cheek-bones, and long chin — a sort of 
caricature of the national features of Scotland. 
The tartan which he wore differed from that of 
his companion, as it had much more scarlet in it, 
whereas the shades of black and dark green pre- 
dominated in the chequers of the other. The 
third, who sat at the small table, was in the Low- 
land dress — a bold, stout-looking man, with a cast 
of military daring in his eye and manner, his 
riding-dress showily and profusely laced, and his 
cocked-hat of formidable dimensions. His hanger 
and a pair of pistols lay on the table before him. 



180 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



Each of the Highlanders had their naked dirks 
stuck upright in the board beside him — an emblem, 
I was afterwards informed, but surely a strange 
one, that their compotation was not to be inter- 
rupted by any brawl. A mighty pewter measure, 
containing about an English quart of usquebaugh, 
a liquor nearly as strong as brandy, which the 
Highlanders distil from malt, and drink undiluted 
in excessive quantities, was placed before these 
worthies. A broken glass, with a wooden foot, 
served as a drinkiiig-cup to the whole party, and 
circulated with a rapidity which, considering the 
potency of the liquor, seemed absolutely marvel- 
lous. These men spoke loud and eagerly together, 
sometimes in Gaelic, at other times in English. 
Another Highlander, wrapt in his plaid, reclined 
on the floor, his head resting on a stone, from 
which it was only separated by a wisp of straw, 
and slept, or seemed to sleep, without attending to 
what was going on around him. He also was 
probably a stranger, for he lay in full dress, and 
accoutred with the sword and target, the usual 
arms of his countrymen when on a journey. Cribs 
there were of different dimensions beside the 
walls, formed, some of fractured boards, some of 
shattered wicker-work or plaited boughs, in which 
slumbered the family of the house, men, women, 
and children, their places of repose only concealed 
by the dusky wreaths of vapour which arose above, 
below, and around them. 

Our entrance was made so quietly, and the 
carousers I have described were so eagerly engaged 
in their discussions, that we escaped their notice 
for a minute or two. But I observed the High- 
lander who lay beside the fire raise himself on his 
elbow as we entered, and, drawing his plaid over 
the lower part of his face, fix his look on us for a 
few seconds, after which he resumed his recum- 
bent posture, and seemed again to betake himself 
to the repose which our entrance had interrupted. 

We advanced to the fire, which was an agreeable 
spectacle after our late ride, during the chilluess of 
an autumn evening among the mountains, and 
first attracted the attention of the guests who had 
preceded us, by calling for the landlady. She 
approached, looking doubtfully and timidly, now 
at us, now at the other party, and returned a 
hesitating and doubtful answer to our request to 
have something to eat. 

" She didna ken," she said, " she wasna sure 
there was onything in the house," and then modi- 
fied her refusal with the qualification — "that is, 
o-nything fit for the like of us." 

I assured her we were indifierent to the quality 
of our supper ; and looking round for the means 
of accommodation, which were not easily to be 
found, I arranged an old hen-coop as a seat for 
Mr. Jarvie, and turned down a broken tub to serve 
for my own. Andrew Fairservice entered presently 



afterwards, and took a place in silence behind our 
backs. The natives, as I may caU them, continued 
staring at us with an air as if confounded by our 
assurance, and we — at least, I myself — disguised 
as well as we could, under an appearance of in- 
difference, any secret anxiety we might feel con- 
cerning the mode in which we were to be received 
by those whose privacy we had disturbed. 

At length, the lesser Highlander, addressing 
himself to me, said, in very good English, and in 
a tone of great haughtiness, " Ye make yourself at 
home, sir, I see." 

" I usually do so," I replied, " when I come into 
a house of public entertainment." 

" And did she na see," said the taller man, " by 
the white wand at the door, that gentlemans had 
taken up the public-house on their ain business'?" 

" I do not pretend to understand the customs of 
this country ; but I am yet to learn," I replied, 
" how three persons should be entitled to exclude 
all other travellers from the only place of shelter 
and refreshme]it for mUes round." 

" There's uae reason for't, gentlemen," said the 
Bailie; "we mean nae offence — but there's neither 
law nor reason for't — but as far as a stoup o' gude 
brandy wad make up the quarrel, we, being peace- 
able folk, wad be willing " 

" Hang your brandy, sir ! " said the Lowlander, 
adjusting his cocked-hat fiercely upon his head;. 
"we desire neither your brandy nor your com- 
pany," and up he rose from his seat. His com- 
panions also arose, muttering to each other, draw- 
ing up their plaids, and snorting and sniffing the ■ 
air after the manner of their countrymen when 
working themselves into a passion. 

" I tauld ye what wad come, gentlemen," said 
the landlady, " an ye wad hae been tauld. Get 
awa' wi' ye out o' my house, and make nae dis- 
turbance here — there's nae gentleman bo disturbed 
at Jeanie MacAlpine's an she can hinder. A wheen 
idle English loons, gaun about the country under 
cloud o' night, and disturbing honest peaceable 
gentlemen that are drinking their drap drink at 
the fireside ! " 

At another time I should have thought of the 
old Latin adage — 

" Dat veniam corvis, vesat censura columbas " — 

but I had not any time for classical quotation, for 
there was obviously a fray about to ensue, at 
which, feeling myself indignant at the inhospitable 
insolence with which I was treated, I was totally 
indifferent, unless on the BaiUe's account, whose 
person and qualities were ill qualified for such 
an adventure. I started up, however, on seeing 
the others rise, and dropped my cloak from my" 
shoulders, that I might be ready to stand on the 
defensive. 
" We are three to three," said the lesser High- 



THE BRAVERY OF BAILIE NICOL JARVIE. 



181 



lander, glancing his eyes at our party ; " if ye be 
pretty men, draw !" and, unslieathing his broad- 
sword, he advanced on me. I put myself in a 
posture of defence, and, aware of the superiority of 
my weapon, a rapier or small-sword, was little 
afraid of the issue of the contest. The Bailie 
behaved with unexpected mettle. As he saw the 
gigantic Highlander confront him with his weapon 
drawn, he tugged for a second or two at the hilt of 
his shabble, as he called it ; but finding it loath to 
quit the sheath, to which it had long been secured 
by rust and disuse, he seized as a substitute on 



set, was sorely bested. The weight of his weapon,, 
the corpulence of hLs person, the very efferves- 
cence of his own passions, were rapidly exhausting 
both his strength and his breath, and he was 
almost at the mercy of his antagonist, when up 
started the sleeping Highlander from the floor on 
which he reclined, with his naked sword and target 
in Ms hand, and threw himself between the dis- 
comfited magistrate and his assailant, exclaiming,, 
"Her nainsell has eaten the town pread at the 
Cross o' Glasgow, and py her troth she'll fight for 
Bailie Sharvie at the Clachan of Aberfoil — tat will. 




The Bailie behavi;d with unexpected mettle." (Draicnhy W. E. Overcnd.) 



the red-hot coulter of a plough which had been 
employed in arranging the fire by way of a poker, 
and brandished it with such efiect, that at the 
first pass he set the Highlander's plaid on fire, and 
compelled him to keep a respectful distance till he 
could get it extinguished. Andrew, on the con- 
trary, who ought to have faced the Lowland cham- 
pion, had, I grieve to say it, vanished at the very 
commencement of the fray. But his antagonist, 
crjring, " Fair play ! fair play ! " seemed cour- 
teously disposed to take no share in the scufHe. 
Thus we commenced our rencontre on fair terms 
as to numbers. My owa aim was to possess 
myself, if possible, of my antagonist's weapon ; 
but I was deterred from closing for fear of the 
dirk which he held in his left hand, and used in 
parrying the thrusts of my rapier. Meantime the 
BaUie, notwithstanding the success of his first on- 



she e'en ! " And seconding his words with deeds^. 
this unexpected auxiliary made his sword whistle 
about the ears of his tall countryman, who, nothing 
abashed, returned his blows with interest. But 
being both accoutred with round targets made 
of wood, studded with brass, and covered with 
leather, with which they readily parried each 
other's strokes, their combat was attended with 
much more noise and clatter than serious risk of 
damage. It appeared, indeed, that there was 
more of bravado than of serious attempt to do us. 
any injury ; for the Lowland gentleman, who, as I 
mentioned, had stood aside for want of an antago- 
nist when the brawl commenced, was now pleased 
to act the part of moderator and peace-maker. 

" Hand your hands — hand your hands — eneugh 
done — eneugh done ! — the quarrel's no mortal. 
The strange gentlemen have shown themselves.- 



182 



GLEANINGS FEOM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



men of honour and gien reasonable satisfaction. 
I'll stand on mine honour as kittle as ony man, 
but I hate unnecessary bloodshed." 

It was not, of course, my wish to protract the 
fray — my adversary seemed equally disposed to 
sheath his sword — the Bailie, gasping for breath, 
might be considered as hors de combat, and our 
two sword-and-buckler men gave up their contest 
with as much indifference as they had entered 
into it. 

"And now," said the worthy gentleman who 
acted as umpire, "let us drink and gree like honest 
fellows — the house will hand us a'. I propose that 
this good little gentleman that seems sair for- 
foughen, as I may say, in this tuilzie, shall send 
for a tass o' brandy, and I'U pay for another, by 
way of archilowe,* and then we'll birl our bawbees 
a' round about, like brethren." 

"And fa's to pay my new ponnie plaid," said 
the larger Highlander, " wi' a hole burnt in't ane 
alight put a kail-pat through ■? Saw ever onybody 
a decent gentleman fight wi' a firebrand before 1 " 

" Let that be nae hindrance," said the Bailie, 
who had now recovered his breath, and was at 
once disposed to enjoy the triumph of having 
behaved with spirit, and avoid the necessity of 
again resorting to such hard and doubtful arbitre- 
ment. " Gin I hae broken the head," he said, " I 
sail find the plaister. A new plaid sail ye hae, 
and o' the best — your ain clan-colours, man — an 
.ye will tell me where it can be sent t'ye frae 
•■Glasco." 



" I needna name my clan — I am of a king's clan, 
as is weel kend," said the Highlander; "but ye 
may tak a bit o' the plaid — tigh ! she smells Kke a 
singit sheep's head — and that'll learn ye the sett 
— and a gentleman, that's a cousin o' my ain, that 
carries eggs doun frae Glencroe, will ca' for't about 
Martimas, an ye wiU tell her where ye bide. But, 
honest gentleman, neist time ye fight, and ye hae 
ony respect for your athversary, let it be wi' your 
sword, man, since ye wear ane, and no wi' thae 
het culters and fireprands, like a wild Indian." 

" Conscience ! " replied the Bailie, " every man 
maun do as he dow — my sword hasna seen the 
light since Bothwell Brigg, when my father, that's 
dead and gaue, ware it ; and I kenna weel if it 
was forthcoming then either, for the battle was o' 
the briefest. At ony rate, it's glewed to the scab- 
bard now beyond my power to part them ; and, 
finding that, I e'en grippit at the first thing I 
could make a fend wi'. I trow my fighting days is 
done, though I like ill to take the scorn, for a' 
that. But where's the honest lad that tuik my 
quarrel on himsel' sae frankly? — I'se bestow a 
giU o' aquavitae on him, an I suld never ca' for 
anither." 

The champion for whom he looked around was, 
however, no longer to be seen. He had escaped, 
unobserved by the Bailie, immediately when the 
brawl was ended, yet not before I had recognised, 
in his wild features and shaggy red hair, our 
acquaintance Dougal, the fugitive turnkey of the 
Glasgow gaol. 



A DEEADFUL AFFAIE. 




) T'S all very well to report a man, and 

make minutes about him, and all that 

sorter thing," said John Pipley, A B 

247, as he went down Great Bulky 

Street, beating his white-gloved 

hands together, and rolling his eyes about in all 

•directions. "A man can't be all hyes, like a 

peacock, and looking everywhere at once. Twenty 

shillings a week aint much, you know, is it, for 

board and lodging, and washing, and the missus, 

and the young uns ? Here, just get out o' that, 

now, will yer ? " 

" I aint in nobody's way, am I ? " 

" Yes, you are ; so go on ! That there barrer o' 

•youm's been getting bigger every week, and how's 

•carriages to draw up if you're here ? " 

This bit of fencing took place between PC. 
Pipley and a man with an apple barrow — the fruit 
vendor going off grumbling, and PC. on the look- 

"* Ai'chilowe, of unknown derivatiou, signifies a peace-oifering. 



ovit for workers of mischief against the laws of her 
Sovereign Majesty the Queen. He was not a 
perfect man, John Pipley : he was a good officer, 
and worked hard for his pay ; biit he was not 
perfect, and he knew it. In earlier days, before 
Mrs. Pipley agreed to rest in future upon his 
manly breast, he had been seen more than once to 
steal up from areas, and close the gate very carefully 
after him — of course returning from voyages of 
investigation and examination of locks, bolts, and 
bars for the protection of her Majesty's liege 
subjects. 

Of course he had on these occasions tried the 
coal-cellar, and looked into the dustbin. But why 
was a gentle cough heard, and a door closed softly 
when John came up % and, again, why bulged those 
pockets, to the distortion of the symmetry of his 
manly form — the knobblefying of his neat bine 
uniform 1 

It is a very old joke to accuse policemen of par- 
tiality for cooks ; but the charge is none the less 



A DREADFUL AFFAIR. 



183 



true, and the great Force need not blush. Have 
not the greatest generals and statesmen found 
solace in the society of the other sex 1 

But John was now a married man, and devoted 
himself most strongly to his profession. Evil-doers 
feared him, and many were the scoundrels he had 
haled off to prison, with penal results. It was not 
often that he interfered with applewomen. His 
orders were to keep the way clear ; but, as John 
said, "We must all live, and selling apples is 
honest — as honest as selling tea and sugar — 
honester, for you can't adulterate your apples, 
though you. may boil an orange." But John was 
now under a cloud, and he did interfere with 
apple men and women ; " chivied " small boys ; 
cuffed one who had " cut behind " a cab and 
nearly been run over ; frowned severely at a fuzee 
seller ; scowled at the patchouli native in cummer- 
bund, till the coffee-coloured Hindoo shivered in 
his shoes and smiled pathetically. John even had 
words with an earl's coachman, and moved him on 
in spite of the coronet upon, the panel and the 
dashing bays. 

For John was under a cloud. Mysterious rob- 
beries had been taking place on his beat, and 
though he had done his best to catch the members 
of the gang, they had been too much for him, and 
the robberies went on. 

Now this was very galling to a man who had 
' set his mind upon rising in Ufe. Blue was very 
well ; but John wanted to wear black, with silk 
facings. P.O. was decent, sergeant was better ; 
but inspector, and then superintendent — those 
were the goals that John Pipley wished to reach in 
the race of life ; and now, instead of going forward, 
his movements were retrograde : he was threatened 
with minutes and reports, and all because of the 
scoundrels who had been too much for him. 

" I'll be down upon them, though, one of these 
days," said John. " I'll put salt on some of your 
tails, my pretty gaol-birds. It's 'ware hawk with 
you, so I tell you, my fine feUows." 

So he went on, up and down, down and up, and 
had nothing to report at last. 

And the robberies went on. A carpet bag was 
taken from a cab in motion. Next day, a shawl, 
and a carriage timepiece were stolen as the 
barouche stood at a fashionable milliner's door. 
The disturbance about that was hardly over when 
a boy was hiistled, and a valuable parcel wrested 
from his hands. Again, a page was bonneted, and 
a pet dog and a motlier-o'-pearl opera-glass taken 
from his encircling arms. 

John Pipley was in despair. 

Another day. Great-coat and umbrella from the 
front hall of Lord Rubblemede's town mansion, in 
Upper Crook Street ; two umbrellas from No. 24 
in the same street, and a roll of carpet from the 
big draper's round the corner. 



John had a sharp lecture from the inspector, and 
he went again upon his beat, horribly wroth. 

" If I'd only been by that shop-door I could 
have nailed them," said John, angrily ; " but a 
man can't be everywhere at once. I'U have them, 
though, next time, hang me if I don't ! or else I'll 
leave the force." 

He was very busy that day, and took up one man 
on suspicion ; but only got snubbed for his pains. 

" I shall be too many for them yet," said John, 
as he swung leisurely down a street. " Every dog 
has his day, watch-dogs as well as mongrels, 
a-running about and doing mischief; but when 
I do get liold, why then " 

He paused before an orange woman who was en- 
croaching upon the pavement, and, after warning 
her off, began to ponder on her appearance. Some 
one must have committed these robberies, and why 
not she as well as any one else 1 She was bulky, 
and had a habit of sitting in a sieve packed with 
her legs under her, to keep her warm ; her bonnet 
was very much crushed, and her plaid shawl all 
awry — all of which proved nothing ; but they 
might be found to be associated in some way with 
the late robberies. It was astonishing what great 
things sometimes grew out of small, as the detective 
had often shown. 

John Pipley could not make the sides of the 
puzzle iit, so he moved on himself. 

Ah ! Now that was more likely. An organ- 
grinder. Hum ! Always loitering about and 
turning that handle — what opportunities for think- 
ing out villainy ! But no, it would not do. He 
couldn't take up Giuseppe on suspicion ; so the man 
ground out the march from " Faust " like so much 
mu.sical meal to be blown away upon the wind,, 
the sounds buzzing in John Pipley's ears, even 
when he was out of sight. 

" I'll have 'em yet, — I'll have 'em yet," said 
John, as he chewed the cud of his disappointment, 
and thought of his inspector's words ; but his 
business was very slack, the people were awfully 
well-behaved, and it was very disappointing. 

A cab rattled by, laden with luggage ; but no 
scoundrel was dislodging a portmanteau ; and he - 
John Pipley — could not run after that cab all the 
way to the Great Northern to see if it arrived 
there safe. It was not reasonable, and would be 
horribly v.'anting in dignity. 

How his head worked ! How he beat together 
his gloves, in which his fingers itched to get at crime 
or longed to lay hold of his truncheon, and hit at 
something, hard — very hard! 

Up and down, here and there ; but nothing on 
the wing. Not even a row between somebody s 
coachman and a cabby ; not even a horse dowr ; 
all was peace when he wanted war— war to the 
truncheon. 

It was enough to make any policeman sigh, and 



184 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



lie sighed accordingly. Ah ! if some daring 
scoundrel would only dash a brick through one of 
those great panes of glass, and seize handfuls of the 
^glorious jewels therein ! With what a feeling of ex- 
quisite delight he could bring down his truncheon 
upon the evil-doer's arm, and make him drop the 
treasure, which would fly scintillating all over 
the pavement ; and then, with the fellow's cuff 
tightly held, the jewels gathered and placed in his 
— John Pipley's — pocket, how he could proudly 
march the thief off, enter the charge, and deposit 
the culprit, like so much honey which he had 
.gathered, safely in a cell 1 

Ah, and court next day ! Yes, he would shine 
there as the active and intelligent ofiicer. The 
jeweller would, of course, come down handsome, 
and it would be a step towards promotion. Yes, if 
such an attempt were only made, and he was at 
hand to stay it ! What a crack at the gang it 
would be — if it were not a castle in the air. 

P.O. Pipley beat his gloves together and sighed — 
■sighed deeply. 

" I was on the look-out when that last carriage 
robbery came off, and I'd almost go so far as to 
•swear that I saw that roll of carpet perfectly safe 
ten mimites before it was stolen. Though it 
couldn't have been safe, or it wouldn't have been 
taken. Ah ! I shall have 'em yet." 

" Now then, Bobby, give's a lift with this here, 
there's a good 'un." 

John Pipley had been slowly approaching a great 
cheesemonger's shop, at one end of which stood a 
light cart, with the tail-board down, and an ordi- 
nary-looking man was trying to lift a large firkin 
into the cart, its fellow being already there. 

" Heavy ^ "said PC. Pipley. 

" Out an' out," said the man. 

John Pipley was naturally good-natured. He 
knew, too, the value of aid in a row : how often 
the law was glad to appeal to a civilian for help in 
the capture of some ugly customer. So, without a 
moment's hesitation, he slipped off his gloves, 
seized one end of the little barrel, and with a swing 
it was safely deposited in the cart. 

"A little furder, old un," said the man; 
" now, then, both together. Another to come." 

A vigorous push sent the firkin right forward 
beside the other. 

" Now this here," said the man, " and then there's 
the price of a pint," as he stepped up to an egg- 
box lying close under the cheesemonger's window. 

"All right," said John; "but just tell your 
people as it aint safe to leave these things out ; 
there's been a good many robberies about." 

" Well, I told our foreman as it wasn't safe," 
said the man ; " but he called me a fool for my 
pains. Now, then." 

John Pipley pocketed the twopence offered to 
him, got his fingers under one end of the straw- 



packed case, the man got his under the other ; the 
box was rested on the tail of the cart, leisurely 
thrust in, the tail-board rattled up, pins and chains 
secured, the man climbed into the cart, a mutual 
nod of good-fellowship was exchanged, the reins 
were shaken, the horse flicked, and away it rattled 
while PC. Pipley slowly replaced his gloves. 

" Luck's dead against me," he said — " dead as 
dead ; but I'll have 'em yet. If some one would 
only do something. If I'd had any luck at all, I 
should have nobbled some one after them butter 
kegs. Heighho ! nothing never falls in my way." 

All through the afternoon, like a law-preserving 
and intelligent ofiicer, did PC. Pipley wander 
about his beat, longing to get a shot at some rascal 
or another; but everything was quieter than usual, 
and the time for relief coming, P.C. Pipley returned 
to the station. 

" Another robbery on your beat this afternoon, 
Pipley," said the inspector. " Strange thing ! 
Most mysterious ! But it must be stopped. We 
can't go on like this. I must put another man 
on." 

" No, sir, don't, please ; I'm down on 'em first 
chance," said Pipley ; " but what is it this time — 
another timepiece out of a carriage 1 " 

"No ; a " 

" Not a great-coat from a hall? " 

"No ; a shop-door robbery." 

" And 1 told 'em to be careful about them there 
rolls of carpet," said Pipley. 

" I don't want to be harsh," said the inspector ; 
" and I suppose you were watched out of the way. 
A man can't be everywhere at once, nor yet be 
all eyes, as the ratepayers and the press seem to 
think." 

" What was it this time, sir 1 " said Pipley. 

" Oh, a very daring affair — butter firkins and egg 
chests, just delivered from a railway van. Two 
firkins and a chest taken from the cheesemonger's 
door directly after." 

" Were they outside the shop, .sir 1 " said Pipley, 
rubbing his gloves softly together. 

" Yes, outside at Chedderby's. The fellows must 
have had a cart. I'll put on a couple of plain- 
clothes men, for this sort of thing must be 
stopped. The colonel will be furious." 

" 'They're sharp mis, and no mistake," said John 
Pipley, with a peculiar look of his eye ; and then, 
being dismissed, he slowly returned to his lodgings, 
grinding his teeth, doubling his fists, and biting 
a bit of straw into the smallest possible fragments. 

" It won't do to say how I've been sold," he 
muttered at last, as he sat down to the tea-table ; 
" for I have been sold, and no mistake. Looked 
as innocent as a lamb, he did ; and me not to see 
as he was the lamb of black sheep. And me, after 
eight years in the Force, not to have the gumption 
to take a note of the name upon the cart i " 




■THE BEIDE HATH PACED INTO THE HALL.- {Drawn by M. L. Gcw.) 

" THE AXCIEKT aiAltlSER- (p. 185) 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



T^5 



THE EIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINEE. 

[By Samhel Taylob Coleeidge,] 

The Wedding-guest sat on a stone : 
He cannot choose but hear ; 
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 



The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared. 

Merrily did we drop 

Below the kirk, below the hill, 

Below the lighthouse top. 

The sun came up upon the left, 
Out of the sea came he ! 
And he shone bright, and on the right 
Went down into the sea. 

Higher and higher every day, 

Till over the mast at noon — 

The Wedding-guest here beat his breast, 

For he heard the loud bassoon. 

The bride hath paced into the hall, 
Red as a rose is she : 
Nodding their heads before her goes 
The merry minstrelsy. 

The Wedding -guest he beat his breast. 
Yet he cannot choose but hear ; 
And thus spake on that ancient man. 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 

And now the storm-blast came, and he 
Was tyrannous and strong : 
He struck with his o'ertaking wings. 
And chased us south along. 

With sloping masts and dipping prow, 
As who pursued with yell and blow 
Still treads the shadow of his foe. 
And forward bends his head. 
The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, 
And southward aye we fled. 

And now there came both mist and snow, 
And it grew wondrous cold : 
And ice, mast-high, came floating by. 
As green as emerald. 

And through the drifts, the snowy clifts 
Did send a dismal sheen : 
Nor shapes of men, nor beasts we ken— 
The ice was all between. 




' He stoppeth one of three.' 



^ T is an ancient Jlariner, 
And he stoppeth one of three. 
" By thy long gray beard and glittering eye. 
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me 1 

" The bridegroom's doors are opened wide. 
And I am next of kin ; 
The guests are met, the feast is set : 
May'st hear the merry din." 

He holds him with his skinny hand, 

" There was a ship," quoth he. 

" Hold off ! unhand me, gray-beard loon ! " 

Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 

He holds him with his glittering eye — 
The Wedding-g-uest stood still, 
And listens like a three years' child : 
The Mariner hath his will. 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



The ice was here, the ice was there, 

The ice was all around : 

It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, 

Like noises in a swound ! 

At length did cross an Albatross, 
Thorough the fog it came ; 
As if it had been a Christian soul, 
We hailed it in God's name. 

It ate the food it ne'er had eat, 
And round and round it flew. 
The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; 
The helmsman steered us through ! 

And a good south -wind sprung up behind ; 

The Albatross did follow, 

And every day, for food or play. 

Came to the mariner's hollo ! 

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 

It perched for vespers nine ; 

Whiles all the niglit, through fog-smoke white. 

Glimmered the white moonshine. 

" God save thee, ancient Mariner ! 
From the fiends that plague thee thus ! — 
Why look'st thou so ? " — With my cross-bow 
I shot the Albatross. 



The sun now rose upon the right : 
Out of the sea came he. 
Still hid in mist, and on the left 
Went down into the sea. 

And the good south wind still blew behind, 
But no sweet bird did follow, 
Nor any day for food or play 
Came to the mariner's hollo ! 

And I had done a hellish thing, 

And it would work 'em woe : 

For all averred I had killed the bird 

That made the breeze to blow. 

Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay. 

That made the breeze to blow ! 

Nor dim, nor red, like God's own head. 

The glorious sun uprist : 

Then all averred I had killed the bird 

That brought the fog and mist. 

'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, 

That bring the fog and mist. 

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew. 

The furrow followed free ; 

We were the first that ever burst 

Into that silent sea. 



Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 
'Twas sad as sad could be ; 
And we did speak only to break 
The silence of the sea ! 

All in a hot and copper sky, 
The bloody sun, at noon. 
Right up above the mast did stand, 
No bigger than the moon. 

Day after day, day after day. 
We stuck, nor breath nor motion : 
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

Water, water, everywhere. 
And all the boards did shrink ; 
Water, water, everyn'here. 
Nor any drop to drink. 

The very deep did rot : O Christ ! 
That ever this should be ! 
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
Upon the slimy sea. 

About, about, in reel and rout 
The death-fires danced at night ; 
The water, like a witch's oils, 
Burnt green, and blue, and white. 

And some in dreams assured were 
Of the spirit that plagued us so; 
Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
From the land of mist and snow. 

And every tongue, through utter drought, 
Was withered at the root ; 
We could not speak, no more than if 
We had been choked with soot. 

Ah ! well-a-day ! what evil looks 
Had I from old and young ! 
Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
About my neck was hung. 



There passed a weary time. Each throat 

Was parched, and glazed each eye. 

A weary time ! a weary time ! 

How glazed each weary eye, 

When looking westward, I beheld 

A something in the sky. 

At first it seemed a little speck, 
And then it seemed a mist ; 
It moved and moved, and took at last 
A certain shape, I wist. 



THE EIME OF THE ANCIENT MAKINER. 



187 



A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! 
And still it neared and neared ; 
As if it dodged a water-sprite, 
It plunged, and tacked, and veered. 

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked. 

We could nor laugh nor wail ; 

Through utter drought all dumb we stood ; 

I bit my arm, I sucked the blood. 

And cried, A sail ! A sail ! 



When that strange shape drove suddenly 
Betwixt us and the sun. 

And straight the sun was flecked with bars, 
(Heaven's Mother send us grace !) 
As if through a dungeon-grate he peered 
With broad and burning face. 

Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
How fast she nears and nears ! 







" A S.IIL ! 
(From the Design hy Sir Noel Paton, R.S.A. 



A SAIL ! '* 

B'j permission of the Art Un-on of Lonion,) 



With throats unslaked, with black lips baked. 
Agape they heard me call : 
Gramercy ! they for joy did grin. 
And all at once their breath drew in, 
As they were drinking all. 

See ! see ! (I cried) she tacks no more ! 
Hither to work us weal ; 
Without a breeze, without a tide, 
She steadies with upright keel ! 

The western wave was all aflame, 
The day was well-nigh done ! 
Almost upon the western wave 
Eested the broad bright sun ; 



Are those her sails that glance in the sun, 
Like restless gossameres 1 

Are those her ribs through which the sun 
Did peer, as through a grate '* 
And is that Woman all her crew t 
Is that a death ? and are there two ? 
Is Death that woman's mate ? 

Her lips were red, her looks were free, 
Her locks were yellow as gold : 
Her skin was as white as leprosy, 
The night-mare Life-in-Death was she, 
Who thicks man's blood with cold. 



183 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 




(From the J 



*' The self-same houient I could prat." 
'gn by Sir Noel Paton, F.S.A, By permission of the Art Union of London.) 



The naked hulk alongside came, 

And the twain were casting dice ; 

" The game is done ! I've won, I've won ! " 

Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 

The sun's rim dips : the stars rush out : 
At one stride comes the dark ; 
With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, 
Off shot the spectre-bark. 

We listened, and looked sideways up ! 

Fear at my heart, as at a cup. 

My life-blood seemed to sip. 

The stars were dim, and thick the night, 

The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white; 

From the sails the dew did drip — 

Till clomb above the eastern bar 

The horned moon, with one bright star 

Within the nether tip. 

One after one, by the star-dogged moon. 
Too quick for groan or sigh, 
Each turned his face with a ghastly pang. 
And cursed me with his eye. 

Four times fifty living men, 
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan) 



With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 
They dropped down one by one. 

The souls did from their bodies fly, — 
They fled to bliss or woe ! 
And every soul it passed me by. 
Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! 

PART IV. 

" I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! 

I fear thy skinny hand ! 

And thou art long, and lank, and brown,. 

As is the ribbed sea-sand. " 

" I fear thee and thy glittering eye, 
And thy skinny hand so brown." — 
Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-gTiest I 
This body dropt not down. 

Alone, alone, all, all alone, 
Alone on a wide, wide sea ! 
And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony. 

The many men, so beautiful ! 

And they all dead did lie ; 

And a thousand thousand slimy thi ig3 

Lived on ; and so did I. 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



189 



I looked upon the rotting sea, 
And drew my eyes away ; 
I looked upon the rotting deck, 
And there the dead men lay. 

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray 
But or ever a prayer had gusht, 
A wicked whisper came and made 
My heart as dry as dust. 

I closed my lids, and kept them close. 

And the balls like pulses beat ; 

For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the 

sky, 

Lay like a load on my weary eye. 
And the dead were at my feet. 

The cold sweat melted from their hmbs. 
Nor rot nor reek did they : 
The look with which they looked on me 
Had never passed away. 

\.n orphan's curse would drag to hell 

A spirit from on high ; 

But oh ! more horrible than that 



Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! 

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, 

And yet I could not die. 

The moving moon went up the sky, 
And nowhere did abide : 
Softly she was going up. 
And a star or two beside — 

Her beams bemock'd the sultry main 
Like April hoar-frost spread ; 
But where the ship's huge shadow lay. 
The charmed water burnt alway 
A still and awful red. 

Beyond the shadow of the ship, 

I watched the water-snakes : 

They moved in tracks of shining white. 

And when they reared, the elfish light 

Fell off in hoary flakes. 

Within the shadow of the ship 

I watched their rich attire : 

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 

They coiled and swam ; and every track 

Was a flash of golden fire. 




" The skiff-boat neared. ' 
{From the Design by Sir Noel Paton, R.S.A. By permission of the Art Union of London.) 



190 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



happy living things ! no tongue 
Their beauty might declare : 

A spring of love gushed from my heart, 
And I blessed them unaware ; 
Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 
And I blessed them unaware. 

The selfsame moment I could pray ; 
And from my neck so free 
The Albatross fell off, and sank 
Like lead into the sea. 
****** 
But soon I heard the dash of oars, 

1 heard the Pilot's cheer ; 

My head was turned perforce away. 
And I saw a boat appear. 

The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, 
I heard thera coming fast : 
Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 

I saw a third — I heard his voice : 

It is the Hermit good ! 

He singeth loud his godly hymns 

That he makes in the wood. 

He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away 

The Albatross's blood. 

PAET VII. 

This Hermit good lives in that wood 
Which slopes down to the sea. 
How loudly liis sweet voice he rears ! 
He loves to talk with marineres 
That come from a far countree. 

He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — 

He hath a cushion plump : 

It is the moss that wholly hides 

The rotted old oak-stump. 

The skiff- boat neared : I heard them talk — 
" Why, this is strange, I trow ! 
Where are those lights so many and fair. 
That signal made but now 1 " 

" Strange, by my faith ! " the Hermit said— 

" And they answered not our cheer ! 

The planks looked warped ! and see those 

sails, 
How thin they are, and sere ! 
I never saw aught like to them, 
Unless perchance it were 

" Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
My forest brosk along ; 
When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below. 
That eats the she-wolf's young." 



" Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look — 
(The Pilot made reply) 
I am a-feared " — " Push on, push on ! " 
Said the Hermit cheerily. 

The boat came closer to the ship, 
But I nor spake nor stirred ; 
The boat came close beneath the ship. 
And straight a sound was heard. 

Under the water it rumbled on. 
Still louder and more dread : 
It reached the ship, it split the bay ; 
The ship went down like lead. 

Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, 

Which sky and ocean smote. 

Like one that hath been seven days drowned 

My body lay afloat ; 

But swift as dreams, myself I found 

Within the Pilot's boat. 

Upon the whirl where sank the shiji. 
The boat spun round and round ; 
And all was still save that the hill 
Was teUing of the sound. 

I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 
And fell down in a fit ; 
The holy Hermit raised his eyes. 
And prayed where he did sit. 

I took the oars ; the Pilot's boy. 

Who now doth crazy go. 

Laughed loud and long, and all the while 

His eyes went to and fro. 

" Ha ! ha ! " quoth he, " full plain I see, 

The Devil knows how to row." 

And now, all in my own countree, 
I stood on the firm land ! 
The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, 
And scarcely he could stand. 

" O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man ! " 
The Hermit crossed his brow. 
" Say quick," quoth he, " I bid thee say— 
What manner of man art thou ? ' 

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 

With a woful agony, 

Which forced me to begin my tale ; 

And then it left me free. 

Since then, at an uncertain hour, 
That agony returns : 
And till my ghastly tale is toid, 
This heart within me burns. 



THE DILEMMA OF PHADRIG. 



191 



I pass, like Night, from land to land ; 
I liave strange power of speech ; 
That moment that his face I see, 
I know the man that must hear me : 
To him my tale I teach. 

Wliat loud uproar bursts from that door ! 
The wedding-guests are there : 
But in the garden bower the bride 
And bride-maids singing are : 
And hark the little vesper bell, 
Which biddeth me to prayer ! 

Weddi'jg-guest ! this soul hath been 
Alone on a mde, wide sea : 
So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 

O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
'Tis sweeter far to me, 
To walk together to the kirk 
With a goodly company ! — 

To walk together to the kirk, 
And all together pray, 



While each to his great Father bends, 
Old men, and babes, and loving friends. 
And youths and maidens gay. 

Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 
To thee, thou AVedding-guest ! 
He prayeth well, who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 

He prayeth best who lovetli best 
All things both great and small ; 
For the dear God who loveth us, 
He made and loveth all.. 

The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
Whose beard with age is hoar, 
Is gone : and now the Wedding-guest 
Turned from the bridegToom's door. 

He went like one that hath been stunned, 
And is of sense forlorn : 
A sadder and a wiser man, 
He rose the morrow mom. 



THE DILEMMA OF PHADRIG. 

[By Gekaid Geiffis.] 




i" HERE'S no use in talken about it, Phad- 
rig. I know an I feel that all's over wit 
p)| me. My pains are aU gone, to be sure 
i-w. ' — but in place o' that, there's a weight 
like a quern stone down upon my heart, an 
I feel it blackenen within me. All 1 have 
to say is — think o' your own Mauria when 
she's gone, and be kind to poor Patcy." 

" Ah, darlen, don't talk that way — there's hopes 
yet — what'U I do — what'll the child do witout 
you 1 " — 

"Phadrig, there's noan. I'm goen fast, an if 
you have any regard for me, you wont say 
anythin that'll bring the thoughts o' you an him 
between me an the thoughts o' heaven, for 
that's what I must think of now. An if you 

marry again " 

" Oh, Mauria, honey, will you kill me entirely t 
Is it I'll marry again ? " 

" If it be a thing you should marry again," 

Mauria resumed, without taking any notice of her 
husband's interruption, " you'll bear in mind, that 
the best mother that ever walked the ground will 
love her own above another's. It stands with 
raisin an natur. The gander abroad will pull a 
strange goslen out of his own flock ; and you 
know yourself, we could never get the bracket 



hen to sit upon Nelly O'Leary's chickens, do what 
we could. Everything loves its own. Then, 
Phadrig, if you see the floury potaties — an the top 
o' the milk— an the warm seat be the hob — an the 
biggest bit o' meat on a Sunday goen away from 
Patcy — you'll think o' your poor Mauria, an do 
her part by him ; just quietly, and softly, an 
without blamen the woman — for it is only what's 
nait'rel, and what many a stepmother does without 
thinking o' themselves. An above all things, 
Phadrig, take care to make him mind his books 
and his religion, to keep out o' bad company, an 
study his readin-made-aisy, and that's the way 
he'U be a blessing an a comfort to you in your old 
days, as I once thought he would be to me in 
mine." 

Here her husband renewed his promises in a 
tone of deep affliction. 

" An now for yourself, Phadrig. Remember the 
charge that's upon you, and don't be goen out 
venturen your life in a little canvas canoe, on the 
bad autumn days, at Ballybunion ; nor vnt foolish 
boys at the Glin and Tarbert fairs ; — and don't be 
so wake-minded as to be trusten to card-drawers, 
an fairy doctors, an the like ; for it's the last word 
the priest said to me was, that you were too 
superstitious, an that's a great shame an a heavy 



192 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



sin. But tee you 1 * Phadrig, dear, tliere's that 
rogue of a pig at the potaties over " 

Phadrig turned out the grunting intruder, bolted 
the hurdle-door, and returned to the bedside of his 
expiring helpmate. That tidy housekeeper, how- 
ever, exhausted by the exertion vphich she had 
made to preserve, from the mastication of the 
swinish tusk, the fair produce of her husband's 
conacre of white eyes, had fallen back on the 
pillow and breathed her last. 

Great was the grief of the widowed Phadrig for 
her loss — great were the lamentations of her female 
friends at the evening wake — and great was the 



The fair Milly, however, did not appear to resent 
this slight, which was occasioned (so the whisper 
went among the guests) by the fact, that she had 
been an old and neglected love of the new widower. 
All the fiery ingredients in Milly's constitution 
appeared to be comprehended in her glowing ring- 
lets — and those, report says, were as ardent in hue 
as their owner was calm and regTilated in her 
temper. It would be a cold morning, indeed, that 
a sight of Milly's head would not warm you — 
and a hot fit of anger which a few tones of her 
kind and wrath-disarming voice would not cool. 
She dropped, after she had concluded her " cry," 




The EvENiifG Wake. 



jug of whisky-punch which the mourners imbibed 
at the mouth, in order to supply the loss of fluid 
which was expended from the eyes. According 
to the usual cottage etiquette, the mother of the 
deceased, who acted as mistress of the ceremonies, 
occupied a capacious hay-bottomed chair near the 
fireplace — from which she only rose when courtesy 
called on her to join each of her female acciuain- 
tances as they arrived, in the death- wail which (as 
in politeness bound), they poured forth over the 
pale piece of earth that lay coffined in the centre 
of the room. This mark of attention, however, the 
old lady was observed to omit ■ndth regard to one 
of the fair guests — a round-faced, middle-aged 
woman, called Milly Rue — or Red Milly, probably 
because her head might have furnished a solution 
of the popular conundrum, "Whj is a red-haired 
lady like a sentinel on his post 1 " 

* To you ! B?ware ! 



a conciliating courtesy to the sullen old lady, took 
an unobstrusive seat at the foot of the bed, talked 
of the " notable " qualities of the deceased, and 
was particularly attentive to the flaxen-headed 
little Patcy, whom she held in her lap during the 
the whole night, cross-examining him in his reading 
and multiplication, and presenting him, at parting, 
in token of her satisfaction at his proficiency, with 
a copy of The Seven Chcmipiotis of Christendom, 
with a fine marble cover and pictures. Milly 
acted in this instance under the advice of a pru- 
dent mother, who exhorted her, "whenever she 
thought o' maken presents, that way, not to be 
layen her money out in cakes or gingerbread, or 
things that would be ett off at wanst, an no more 
about them or the giver — but to give a strong toy 
or a book, or somethen that would last, and bring 
her to mind now and then, so as that when a per- 
son 'ud ask where they got that, or who gev it, 
they'd say, ' from ililly Rue,' or 'Milly gev it, we're 



THE DILEMMA OF PHADRIG. 



193 



obleest to her,' an be talken and thinken of her 
when she'd be away." 

To curb in my tale, which may otherwise become 
restive and unmanageable — Milly's deep affliction 
and generous sympathy made a serious impression 
on the mind of the widower, who more than all 
was touched by that singularly accidental attach- 
ment which she seemed to have conceived for little 
Patcy. Notliing could be farther from his own 
wishes than any design of a second time changing 
his condition ; but he felt that it would be doing a 
grievous wrong to the memory of his first wife if 
he neglected this opportunity of providing her 



The first shock which burst in with a sudden 
violence upon their happiness was one of a direful 
nature. Disease, that pale and hmigiy fiend who 
haunts alike the abodes of wealth and of penury, 
who brushes away with his baleful wing the 
bloom from beauty's cheek, and the balm of 
slumber from the pillow of age ; who troubles 
the hope of the young mother with dreams 
of ghastliness and gloom, and fears that come 
suddenly, she knows not why nor whence ; 
who sheds his poisonous dews alike on the heart 
that is buoyant and the heart that is broken ; 
this stern and conquering demon scorned not 




" Well, an' who are tou ? '• 



favourite Patcy with a protector, so well calculated 
to supply her place. He demurred a little on the 
score of true love, and the violence which he was 
about to do his own constant heart — but like the 
bluff King Henry, his conscience, " aye — his 
conscience," touched him, and the issue was, 
that a roaring wedding shook the walls which 
had echoed to the waO. of death within the 
few preceding months. 

Milly Kue not only supplied the place of a 
mother to young Patcy, but presented him in the 
course of a few years with two merry playfellows, 
a brother and a sister. To do her handsome 
justice, too, poor Mauria's anticipations were 
completely disproved by her conduct, and it 
would have been impossible for a stranger to 
have detected the stepison of the house from 
any shade of undue partiality in the mother. 
The harmony in which they dwelt was unbroken 
by any accident for many years. 

Y 



to knock, one summer morning, at the door of 
Phadrig's cowhouse, and to lay his iron fingers 
upon a fine milch-cow, a sheeted-stripper which 
constituted (to use his own emphatic phrase) the 
poor farmer's " substance," and to which he might 
have applied the well-known lines which run 
nearly as follows : — 

'* She's straight in her back and thin in her tail ; 
She's fine in her horn, and good at the pail ; 
She's calm in her eyes, and soft in her skin ; 
She's a grazier's without, and a hutcher's within.'' 

All the "cures" in the pharmacopceia of the 
village apothecary were expended on the poor 
animal, without any beneficial effect ; and Phadrig 
after many conscientious qualms about the dying 
words of his first wife, resolved to have recourse 
to that infallible refuge in such cases — a fairy 
doctor. 

He said nothing to the afflicted Milly about his 



194 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



intention, but slipped out of the cottage in the 
afternoon, hurried to the Shannon side near 
Money-point, unmoored his light canvas-canoe, 
seated himself in the frail vessel, and fixing his 
paddles on the toivl-jnn, sped away over the calm 
face of the waters towards the isle of Scatterly, 
where the renowned Crohoore-na-Oona, or Connor 
of-the-Sheep, the Mohammed of the cottagers, at 
this time took up his residence. This mysterious 
personage, whose prophecies are still commented 
on among the cottage circles with looks of deep 
awe and wonder, was much revered by his con- 
temporaries as a man " who had seen a dale ; " of 
what nature those sights or visions were was in- 
timated by a mysterious look and a solemn nod of 
the head. 

Li a little time Phadrig ran his little canoe 
aground on the sandy beach of Scatterly, and, 
drawing her above high-water mark, proceeded 
to the humble dwelling of the gifted Sheep- 
shearer with feelings of profound fear and anxiety. 
He passed the lofty round tower — the ruined 
grave of St. Senanus, in the centre of the little isle 
— the mouldering church, on which the eye of the 
poring antiquary may still discern the scidptured 
image of the two-headed monster, with which 
cottage tradition says the saint sustained so fierce 
a conflict on landing on the islet — and which the 
translator of Odranus has vividly described as " a 
dragon, with his fore-part covered with huge 
bristles, standing on end like those of a boar ; and 
mouth gaping wide open with a double row of 
crooked sharp tusks, and with such ojDenings that 
his entrails might be seen ; his back like a round 
island, full of scales and shells ; his legs short and 
hairy, with such steely talons, that the pebble- 
stones, as he ran along them, sparkled — parching 
the way wherever he went, and making the sea 
boil about him where he dived — such was his 
excessive fiery heat." Phadrig's knees shook 
beneath him when he remembered this awful 
description — and thought of the legends of Lough 
Dhoola, on the summit of Mount Gallon, to which 
the hideous animal was banished by the saint, to 
fast on a trout and a half per diem to the end of 
time ; and where, to this day, the neighbouring 
fishermen declare that, in dragging the lake with 
their nets they find the half-trout as regularly 
divided in the centre as if it were done with a knife 
and scale. 

While Phadrig remained with mouth and eyes 
almost as wide open as those of the sculptured 
image of the monster which had fascinated him 
to the spot, a sudden crash among the stones and 
dock-weed, in an opposite corner of the ruin, 
made him start and yell as if the original were 
about to quit Lough Dhoola on parole of honour, 
and use him as a relish after the trout and a 
half. The noise was occasioned by a little rotund 



personage, who had sprung from the mouldering 
wall, and now stood gazing fixedly on the terrified 
Phadrig, who continued returning that steady 
glance with a half-frightened, half-crying face — 
one hand fast clenched iipon his breast, and the 
other extended, with an action of avoidance and 
deprecation. The person of the stranger was stout 
and short, rendered still more so by a stoop, which 
might almost have been taken for a hump — his. 
arms hung forward from his shoulders, like those of 
a long-armed ape — his hair was grey and bushy,, 
like that of a wanderoo — and his sullen grey eye 
seemed to be inflamed with ill-humour — his feet 
were bare and as broad as a camel's — and a 
leathern girdle buckling round his waist, secured a 
tattered grey frieze riding coat, and held an 
enormous pair of shears, which might have clipped 
ofl^ a man's head as readily perhaps, as a lock of 
wool. This last article of costume afforded a 
sufficient indication to Phadrig that he stood in 
the presence of the awful object of his search. 

'' Well ! an who are you .? " growled the Sheep- 
shearer, after surveying Phadrig attentively for 
some moments. 

The first gruff sound of his voice macle the latter 
renew his start and roar for fright ; after which, 
composing his terrors as well he might, he replied, 
in the words of Autolycus — " I am only a poor 
fellow, sir." 

" Well ! an what's your business with me ? " 

" A cure, sir, I wanted for her. A cow o' mine, 
that's very bad inwardly, an we can do nothen for 
her ; an I thought may be you'd know what it is. 
ail'd her — an prevail on them " (this word was 
pronounced with an emphasis of deep meaning) 
'' to leave her to uz." 

" Hush ! " the Sheep-shearer thundered out, in 
a tone that made poor Phadrig jump six feet back- 
wards, with a fresh yell, " do you daare to spake of 
them before me. Go along ! you viUyan o' the 
airth, an wait for me outside the church, an I'll 
tell you all about it there ; but first — do you 
think I can get the gentlemen to do anything for 
me gratish — without oflferen 'em a trate or a 
haip'orth ? " 

" If their honours wouldn't think two tinpennies 
and a fi'penny bit too little. — It's all I'm worth in 
the wide world." 

" Well ! we'll see what they^U say to it. Give it 
here to me. Go now — be ofB with yourself — if 
you don't want to have 'em all a-top o' you in a. 
minnit." 

This last hint made our hero scamper over the 
stones like a startled fawn ; nor did he think 
himself safe until he reached the spot where he 
had left his canoe, and where he expected the 
coming of the Sheep-shSarer ; conscience-struck 
by the breach of his promise to the d3dng 
Mauria, and in a state of agonising anxiety 



THE DILEMMA OF PHADRIG. 



195 



"with respect to the lowing patient in the cow- 
house. 

He was soon after rejoined by Connor-of-the 
Sheep. 

" Thei-e is one way," said he, " of saving your cow 
— ^but you must lose one of your childer if you 
wish to save it." 

" Oh Heaven presarve uz, sir, how is that, if you 
plase 1 " 

"You must go home," said the Sheep-shearer, 
" an say nothen to any body, but fix in your mind 
which o' your three cliilder you'll give for the cow ; 
an when you do that, look in his eyes, an he'll 
.sneeze, an don't you bless him, for the world. 
Then look in his eyes again, an he'll sneeze again, 
an still don't think o' blessen him, be any mains. 
The third time you'll look in his eyes he'll sneeze 
a third time — an if you don't bless him the 
third time, he'll die — but your cow will live." 

" An this is the only cure you have to gi' me 1 " 
exclaimed Phadrig, his indignation at the moment 
overcoming his natural timidity. 

" The only cure. — It was by a dale to do I 
could prevail on them to let you make the choice 
itself." 

Phadrig declared stoutly against this decree, and 
-even threw out some hints that he would try 
whether or no Shaun Lauther or Strong John, a 
young rival of the sheep-shearing fairy doctor, 
might be able to make a better bargain for him 
vidth the " gentlemen." 

"Shaun Lauther ! " exclaimed Connor -of -the- 
Sheep, in high anger — "Do you compare me to a 
man that never seen any more than yourself 1 — ■ 
that never saw so much as the skirt of a dead 
man's shroud in the moonlight — or heard as much 
as the nioanen of a sowlth in an old graveyard 1 
Do you know me 1 — Ask them that do — an they'll 
tell you how often I'm called up in the night, and 
kep posten over bog an mountain, till I'm ready 
to drop down with the sleep — while few voices are 
heard, I'll be bail, at Shaun Lauther's windey 
— an little knoUidge given him in his drames. It 
is then that I get mine. Didn't I say before the 
King o' France was beheaded that a blow would 
be struck with an axe in that place, that the 
somid of it would be heard all over Europe 1 — An 
wasn't it true 1 Didn't I hear the shots that 
were fired at Gibaralthur, an tell it over in Dooly's 
forge, that the place was relieved that day? 
— an didn't the news come afterwards in a 
month's time, that I toult nothen but the 
truth 1 " 

Phadrig had nothing to say in answer to this 
overwhelming list of interrogatories — but to 
apologise for his want of credulity, and to express 
himself perfectly satisfied. 

AVith a heavy heart he put forth in his canoe 
upon the water, and prepared to return. It was 



already twilight, and as he glided along the peaceful 
shores, he ruminated mournfully within his 
mind on the course which he should pursue. The 
loss of the cow would be, he considered, almost 
equivalent to total ruin — and the loss of any one 
of his lovely children was a probability which ho 
could hardly bear to dwell on for a moment. 
Still it behoved him to weigh the matter weU. 
Which of them, now — supposing it possible 
that he could think of sacrificing any — which of 
them would he select for the purpose 1 The 
choice was a hard one. There was little Mauria, 
a fair-haired, blue-eyed little girl — but he could 
not, for an instant, think of losing her, as she 
happened to be named after his first wife ; her 
brother, little Shamus, was the least useful of the 
three, but he was the youngest — " the child of his 
old age — a little one ! " his heart bled at the idea ; 
he would lose the cow, and the pig along with it, 
before he would harm a hair of the darling infant's 
head. He thought of Patcy — and he shuddered, 
and leaned heavier on his oars, as if to flee away 
from the horrible doubt which stole into his heart 
with that name. It must be one of the three, or 
the cow was lost for ever. The two first-men- 
tioned he certainly would not lose — and Patcy — 
again he bade the fiend begone, and trembling in 
every limb, made the canoe speed rapidly over the 
tide in the direction of his home. 

He drew the little vessel ashore, and proceeded 
towards his cabin. They had been waiting 
supper for him, and he learned with renewed 
anxiety that the object of his solicitude, the 
milch-cow, had rather fallen away than im- 
proved in her condition during his absence. 
He sat down in sorrowful silence with his wife 
and children, to their humble supper of potatoes- 
and thick milk. 

He gazed intently on the features of each of the 
young innocents as they took their places on the 
suggan chairs that flanked the board. Little 
Mauria and her brother Shamus looked fresh, 
mirthful, and blooming, from their noisy play in 
the adjoining paddock, whUe their elder brother, 
who had spent the day at school, wore — or seemed 
to the distempered mind of his father, to wear a 
look of suUenness and chagrin. He was thinner 
too than most boys of his age — a circumstance 
which Phadrig had never remarked before. It 
might be the first indications of his poor mother's 
disease, consumption, that were beginning to 
declare themselves in his constitution ; and if so, 
his doom was already sealed— and whether the cow 
died or not, Patcy was certain to be lost. Still the 
father could not bring his mind to resolve on 
any settled course, and their meal proceeded in 
silence. 

Suddenly the latch of the door was lifted by 
some person outside, and a neighbour entered to 



196 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



inform Phadrig that the agent to Ms landlord had 
arrived in the adjacent village, for the purpose 
of driving matters to extremity against aU those 
tenants who remained in arrear. At the same 
moment, too, a low moan of anguish from the 
cow outside announced the access of a fresh 
paroxysm of her distemper, which it was very 
evident the poor animal could never come through 
ill safety. 

In an agony of distress and horror, the distracted 
father laid his clenched fingers on the table, and 
looked fixedly in the eyes of the unsuspecting 
Patcy. The child sneezed, and Phadrig closed his 
lips hard, for fear a blessing might escape them. 
The child at the same time, he observed, looked 
paler than before. 

Fearful lest the remorse which began to awake 
within his heart might oversway his resolution, 
and prevent the accomplishment of his unnatural 
design, he looked hurriedly, a second time, into 
the eyes of the little victim. Again the latter 
sneezed — and again the father, using a violent 
effort, restrained the blessing which was strugghng 
at his heart. The poor child drooped his head 
upon his bosom, and letting the untasted food fall 
from his hand, looked so pale and mournful as to 
remind his murderer of the look which his mother 
wore in dying. 

It was long — very long — before the heart- 
struck parent could prevail on himself to complete 
the sacrifice. The visitor departed ; and the first 
beams of a full moon began to supplant the faint 
and lingering twihght which was fast fading in 
the west. The dead of the night drew on before 
the family rose from their silent and comfortless 



meal. The agonies of the devoted animal now 
drew rapidly to a close, and Phadrig still remained 
tortured by remorse on the one hand, and by selfish 
anxiety on the other. 

A sudden sound of anguish from the cow- 
house made him start from his seat. A third 
time he fixed his eyes on those of his child — a 
third time the boy sneezed — but here the charm 
was broken. 

Milly Eue looking with surprise and tenderness 
on the fainting boy, said, — " Why, then. Heaven 
bless you, child ! — it must be a cold you caught, 
you're siieezen so often." 

Immediately the cow sent forth a bellow of deep 
agony, and expired ; and at the same moment a 
low and plaintive voice outside the door was heard 
exclaiming — " And Heaven bless you, !Milly ! and 
the Almighty bless you, and spare you a long time 
over your children ! " 

Phadrig staggered back against the wall — his 
blood froze in his veins — his face grew white as 
death — his teeth chattered — his eyes stared — ^his 
hair moved upon his brow, and the chilling damp 
of terror exuded over all his frame. He recog- 
nised the voice of his first wife ; and her pale cold 
eye met his at that moment, as her shade flitted 
by the window in the thin moonlight, and darted 
on him a glance of mournful reproach. He 
covered his eyes with his hands, and sunk, sense- 
less, into a chair ; — while the affrighted MiUy, and 
Patcy, who at once assumed his glowing health 
and vigour, hastened to his assistance. They had 
all heard the voice, but no one saw the shade nor 
recognised the tone, excepting the conscience- 
smitten Phadrig. 



HEE VE 

[By Egbert 

i^N the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred 
_ ninety-two, 

'-^-'^ Did the English fight the French,— woe 

to France ! 
And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter thro' 

the blue, 
Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of 
sharks pursue, 
Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on 
the Eance, 
With the English fleet in view. 

II. 

Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor 
in full chase ; 
First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, 
Damfreville ; 



E I E L. 

Beoivning.] 

Close on him fled, great and small. 
Twenty-two good ships in all, 
And they signalled to the place 
" Help the winnei-s of a race ! 
" Get us gTiidance, give us harbour, take us quick 

- -or, quicker still, 
" Here's the English can and will ! " 



Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and 

leapt on board ; 
" Why, what hope or chance have ships like these 

to pass 1 " laughed they : 
" Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the 

passage scarred and scored, 
" Shall the Formidable here with her twelve and 

eighty guns 







^ '■Hi .; * 



/ 



-— ^-v 






4 



• 'I 













'SIES, THET KNOW I SPEAK THE TEUTH!" (Dravin hy J . 1<las\i.) 



"nEitri RIEL " (p. i8»i 



HERVE KIEL. 



197 



" Tliink to make the river-mouth by the single 
narrow way, 
" Trust to enter where 't is ticklish for a craft of 
twenty tons, 
" And with flow at full beside ? 
" Now, 't is slackest ebb of tide. 
" Reach the mooring ? Rather say, 
" While rock stands or water runs, 
" Not a ship will leave the bay ! " 

IV. 

Then was called a council straight. 
Brief and bitter the debate : 



— A Captain '? A Lieutenant ? A Mate — first, 
second, third 1 
No such man of mark, and meet 
With his betters to compete ! 
But a simple Breton sailor pressed by TourviUe 
for the fleet, 
A poor coasting pilot he, Herv6 Riel the Croisickese. 



And, " What mockery or malice have we liere 'i " 
cries Herv6 Riel : 
"Are you mad, you ]\Ialouins ? Are you cowards, 
fools, or rogues ? 




" Here's the English at our heels ; would you have 

them take in tow 
"All that's left us of the fleet, linked together 

stern and bow, 
" For a prize to Plymouth Sound 1 
" Better run the ships aground ! " 
(Ended DamfreviUe his speech). 
" Not a minute more to wait ! 
" Let the Captains all and each 
" Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on 
the beach ! 
" France must undergo her fate. 

V. 

" Give the word ! " But no such word 
Was ever spoke or heard ; 
For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid 
all these 



" Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the 

soundings, tell 
" On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every 
swell 
"'Twixt the offing here and Greve where the 
river disembogues ? 
" Are you bought by English gold ? Is it love the 
lying 's for 1 
" Morn and eve, night and day, 
" Have I piloted your bay, 
"Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of 
Solidor. 
"Burn the fleet and ruin France^ That were 
worse than fifty Hogues ! 
" Sirs, they know I speak the truth ! Sirs, 
believe me there 's a way ! 
" Only let me lead the line, 
" Have the biggest ship to steer. 



198 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



" Get this Fonnidable clear, 
■'• Make the others follow mine, 
" And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I 
know well, 
" Riglit to Solidor past Greve, 

" And there lay them safe and sound ; 
" And if one ship misbeliave, 

" — Keel so much as grate the ground, 
" Why, I've nothing but my life, — here's my 
head ! " cries Herv6 Rial. 

VII. 

Not a minute more to wait. 

■" Steer us in, then, small and great ! 

"Take the helm, lead the line, save the 
squadron ! " cries its chief. 
Captains, give the sailor place ! 

He is admiral, in brief. 
■Still the north wind, by God's grace ! 
See the noble fellow's face 
As the big ship, with a bound, 
Clears the entry like a hound, 
Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide 
sea's profound ! 

See, safe through shoal and rock. 

How they follow in a flock, 
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates 
the ground. 

Not a spar that comes to grief ! 
The peril, see, is past. 
All are harboured to the last. 
And just as Herv6 Eiel holloas "Anchor!" — 'sure 

as fate, 
LTp the English come, too late ! 

VIII. 

iSo, the storm subsides to calm. 
They see the green trees wave 
On the heights o'erlooking Grfeve. 
Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. 
" Just our rapture to enhance, 

" Let the English rake the bay, 
" Gnash their teeth and glare askance 

" As thej^ cannonade away ! 
'"Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the 

Ranee ! " 
Now hope succeeds despair on each Captain's 

countenance ! 
Out burst all with one accord, 
" This is Paradise for Hell ! 
" Let France, let France's King, 
" Thank the man that did the thing ! " 
What a shout, and all one word, 
"Herv6Riel!" 



As he stepped in front once more, 
Not a symptom of surprise 
In the frank blue Breton eyes. 

Just the same man as before. 



Then said Damfreville, " My friend, 
" I must speak out at the end, 

" Though I find the speaking hard. 
" Praise is deeper than the lips : 
" You have saved the King his ships, 

" You must name your own reward. 
" 'Faith, our sun was near eclipse ! 
" Demand whate'er you will, 
" France remains your debtor still. 
" Ask to heart's content and have ! or my name's 
not Damfreville." 



Then a beam of fun outbroke 
On the bearded mouth that spoke, 
As the honest heart laughed through 
Those frank eyes of Breton blue : 
" Since I needs must say my say, 

" Since on board the duty 's done, 

"And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what 
is it but a run 1^- 
" Since 't is ask and have, I may — 

" Since the others go ashore— 
" Oome ! A good whole holiday ! 

" Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the 
Belle Aurore ! " 
That he asked and that he got, — nothing more. 



Name and deed alike are lost. 
Not a pillar nor a post 

In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell ; 
Not a head in white and black 
On a single fishing-smack, 

In memory of the man but for whom had gone to 
wrack 
All that France saved from the fight whence 
England bore the bell. 
Go to Paris : rank on rank 

Search the heroes flung pell-mell 
On the Louvre, face and flank ! 
You shall look long enough ere you come to 
Herv6 Riel. 
So, for better and for worse, 
Herv6 Riel, accept my verse ! 
In my verse, Herv6 Riel, do thou once more 
Save the squadron, honour France, love thy wife 
the Belle Aurore ! 



A LITERARY DINNER. 



199 




A LITEEAEY DINNER. 

[From *' The Yellowplusli Papers." By "W. M. Thackeray.] 



V/ISH the public was as sorvy to part 
with me as I am with the public ; 
becaws I fansy reely that we've 
become freuds, and feal for my 
part a becoming grief at saying 
ajew. 

It's imposbiU for me to contin- 
yow, however, a-writin, as I have 
done — violetting the rules of authography, and 
tramijling upon the fust princepills of English 
grammar. When I began, I knew no better : 
when I'd carrid on these papers a little further, 
and gTew accustmd to writin, I began to smel out 
somethink quear in my style. Within the last sex 
weaks I have been learning to speU : and when all 
the world was rejoicing at the festiwates of our 
youthful Quean — when all i's were fixt upon her 
long sweet of ambasdors and princes, following 
the splendid carridge of Marshle the Duke of 
Damlatiar, and blinking at the pearls and dimince 
of Prince Oystereasy — Yellowplush was in his 
loanly pantry — Ms eyes were fixt upon the spell- 
ing-book — his heart was bent upon mastring the 
difiickleties of the littery professhn. I have been, 
in fact, convertid. 

You shall hear how. Ours, you know, is a Wig 
house ; and ever sins his third son has got a place 
in the Treasury, his secnd a captingsy in the 
Guards, his fust the secretary of embasy at Pekin 
with a prospick of being appinted ambasdor at 
Loo Choc — ever sins master's sons have reseaved 
these attentions, and master himself has had the 
promise of a pearitch, he has been the most reglar, 
consistnt, honrabble Libbaral, in or out of the 
Hoose of Commins. 

Well, being a Whig, it's the fashn, as you know, 
to reseave littery pipple ; and accordingly, at 
dinner, tother day, whose name do you think I 
had to hollar out on the fust landing-place about 
a wick ago 1 After several dukes and markises 
had been enounced, a very genteU fly drives up to 
our doar, and out steps two gentlemen. One was 
paU, and wor spekticles, a wig, and a white neck- 
cloth. The other was slim with a hook nose, a 
pail f ase, a small waist, a pare of falling shoulders, 
a tight coat, and a catarack of black satting 
tumbKng out of his busm, and falling into a gilt 
velvet weskit. The little genlmn settled his wigg 
and pulled out his ribbins ; the younger one 
fluffed the dust off his shoos, looked at his wiskers 
in a little pockit-glass, settled his crevatt; and 
they both mounted upstairs. 

" What name, sir 1 " says I, to the old genlmn. 
"Name!— a! now, you thief o' the wurrld,' 



says he, " do you pretind nat to know me .? Say 
it's the Cabinet Cyclopa — no, I mane the 
Litheray Chran — psha ! — bluthanowns ! — say it's 
DocTHOE DiocLESiAN Laenee — I think he'll 
know me now — ay, Nid 1 " But the genlmn called 
Nid was at the botm of the stare, an pretended to 
be very busy with his shoo-string. So the little 
genlmn went upstares alone. 

" Doctor Diolesius Laenee ! " says I. 

" Doctor Athanasius Lardnee ! " says Greville 
Fitz-Roy, our secknd footman, on the fust landing- 
place. 

" Boctor lEgnatfus Xagola ! " says the groom of the 
chambers, who pretends to be a schollar ; and in 
the little genlmn went. When safely housed, the 
other chap came ; and when I asked him his 
name, said in a thick, gobbling kind of voice— 

"Sawedwadgeorgeearllittnbulwig." 

" Sir whot ? " says I, quite agast at the name. 

" Sawedwad — no, I mean i¥i«(;ai«;edwad Lyttu 
Bulwig." 

My neas trembled under me, my i's fild with 
tiers, my voize shook, as I past up the venrabble 
name to the other footman, and saw this fust of 
English writers go up to the drawing-room ! 

It's needless to mention the names of the rest 
of the compny, or to dixcribe the suckmstansies 
of the dinner. Sufiiz to say that the two littery 
genlmn behaved very well, and seamed to have 
good appytights ; igspecially the little Irishman 
in the whig, who et, drunk, and talked as much as 
§ a duzn. He told how he'd been presented at 
cort by his friend, Mr. Bulwig, and how the Quean 
had received em both with a dignity undigscrib- 
able ; and how her blessed Majisty asked what was 
the bony fidy sale of the Cabinet Cyclopaedy,. and 
how he (Doctor Larner) told her that, on his honner, 
it was under ten thowsnd. 

You may guess that the Doctor, when he made 
this speach, was pretty far gone. The fact is, 
that whether it was the coronation, or the good- 
ness of the wine (capittle it is in our house, / can 
tell you), or the natral propensaties of the gests 
assembled, which made them so igspecially jolly, 
I don't know ; but they had kep up the meating 
pretty late, and our poar butler was ciuite tired 
with the perpechual baskits of claret which he had 
been called upon to bring up. So that about 11 
o'clock, if I were to say they were merry, I should 
use a mild term ; if I were to say they were intaw- 
sicated I should use an igspresshn more near to the 
truth, but less rispeckful in one of my situashn. 

The cumpany reseaved this annountsmint with 
mute astonishment. 



200 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



" Pray, Doctor Larnder," says a spiteful genlmn, 
willing to keep up the Littery conversation, " what 
is the Cabinet Cyclopsedia 1 " 

"It's the littherary wontherr of the wurrld," 
says he ; " and sure your lordship must have seen 
it ; the latther numbers ispecially — cheap as durrt, 
bound in gleezed calico, six shillings a voUum. 
The illusthrious neems of Walther Scott, Thomas 
Moore, Docthor Southey, Sir James Mackintosh, 
Docthor Donovan, and meself, are to be found 
in the list of conthributors. Its the Phaynix of 
Cyclopajies — a litherary Bacon." 

" A what 1" says the geulm nex to him. 



its peaceful sceptre — pewused in Amewica, fwom 
New York to Niagawa — wepwinted in Canada, 
fwom Montweal to Toronto — and, as I am gwati- 
fied to hear fwom my fwiend the governor of 
Cape Coast Castle, wegularly weceived in Afwica, 
and twanslated into the Mandigo language by the 
missionawies and the buswangers. I need not say, 
gentlemen — sir — that is, Mr. Speaker — I mean, 
Sir John — that I allude to the Litewawy Chwonicle 
of which I have the honour to be pwincipal contwi- 
butor." 

" Very true, my dear Mr. BuUwig," says my 
master : " you and I, being Whigs, must of course 




' Mt neas trembled undee me.*' [Drawn by W. RaUton.) 



" A Bacon, shining in the darkness of our age ; 
fild wid the pure end lambent flame of science, 
burning with the gorrgeous scintillations of divine 
litherature — a monumintum, in fact, are perinnius 
bound in pink calico, six shillings a vollum." 

"This wigmawole," said Mr. Bulwig (who 
seemed rather disgusted that his friend should 
tak up so much of the convassation), " this 
wigmawole is all vewy well ; but it's cuwious that 
you don't wemember in chawactewising the 
litewawy mewits of the vawious magazines, 
cwonicles, weviews, and encyclopaedias, the 
existence of a cwitical weview and litewawy 
cwonicle which, though the aswa of its appearance 
is dated only at a vewy few months pwevious to 
the pwesent pewoid, is nevertheless so wemark- 
able for its intwinsic mewits as to be wead, not 
in the metwopolis alone, but in the countwy— not 
in Fwance mearly, but in the west of Euwope — 
whewever our pure AVenglish is spoken, it stwetchs 



stand by our own friends ; and I will agree, with- 
out a moment's hesitation, that the Litera what- 
d'ye-call'em is the prince of periodicals." 

" The pwince of pewiodicals 1 " says Bullwig ; 
"my dear Sir John, it's the empewow of the 
pwess." 

" Soit — let it be the emperor of the press, as you 
poetically call it ; but, between ourselves, confess 
it — Do not the Tory writers beat your Whigs 
hollow ! You talk about magazines. Look at " 

" Look at hwat 1 " shouts out Larner. " There's 
none, Sir Jan, compared to ourrs." 

" Pardon me I think that " 

"It is ' Bentley's Mislany' you mane?" says 
Ignatius, as sharp as a nidle. 

" Why, no ; but " 

" O thin, its Co'burn, sure ; and that diwle 
Thayodor — a pretty paper, sir, but light — thrashy, 
milk-and-wathery — not strong, like the Litherary 
Chran — good luck to it." 



A LITERARY DINNER. 



201 



"Why, Doctor Lamer, I was going to tell at 
once the name of the periodical — it is Feasee's 
Magazine." 

"Feesee !" says the Doctor. " thunder and 
turf ! " 

" FwASEE ! " says BuUwig. " O— ah— hum- 
haw — yes — no — why— that is, weally— no, weally, 
upon my weputation, I never before heard the 
name of the pewiodical. By the by. Sir John, 
what wemarkable good clawet this is ! Is it Lawose 
or Laff " 

Lalf, indeed ! he cooden git beyond laff ; and 
I'm blest if I could kip it neither— for hearing 
him pretend ignurnts, and being behind the 



name of the "Yellowplush Correspondence")- 
" Ha, ha ! why, to tell twuth, I have wead the 
cowespondence to which you allude : it's a gweat 
favowite at Court. I was talking with Spwing 
Wice and John Wussell about it the other day." 

" Well, and what do you think of it 1 " says Sir 
John, looking mity waggish — for he knew it was- 
me who roat it. 

" Why, weally and twuly, there's considewable 
cleaverness about the cweature ; but it's low, 
disgustingly low : it violates pwobability, and the 
orthography is so carefully inaccuwate, that it 
requires a possitive study to compwehend it." 

" Yes, faith," says Lamer ; " the arthagraphy is- 




' ' Oh,' said btjllwig, claspings his hawds." {Bravin by W. Ealsion.) 



skreend, settlin sumthink for the genlmn, I bust 
into such a raw of laffing as never was igseeded. 

" Hullo ! " says BuUwig, turning red. " Have I 
said anything impwobable, aw widiculous 1 for 
weally, I never befaw wecollect to have heard in 
society such a twemendous peal of cachinnation — 
that which the twagic bard who fought at Mawa- 
thon has called an anewithmon gelasma." 

" Why, be the holy piper," says Larder, " I think 
you are dthrawing a little on your imagination. 
Not read Fraser ! Don't believe him, my lord 
duke ; he reads every word of it, the rogue ! The 
boys about that magazine baste him as if he was a 
sack of oatmale. My reason for crying out. Sir 
Jan, was because you mintioned Fraser at all. 
Bullwig has every syllable of it by heart — from the 
paillitix down to the 'YeUowplush Correspon- 
dence.' " 

" Ha, ha ! " says Bullwig, affecting to laff (you 
may be sure my ears prickt up when I heard the 
z 



detestible; it's as bad for a man to write bad 
spillin as it is for em to speak wid a brogue. 
Iducation furst, and ganius afterwards. Your 
health, my lord, and good luck to you." 

" Yaw wemark," says Bullwig, " is vewy appwo- 
pwiate. You will wecollect. Sir John, in Hewo- 
dotus (as for you. Doctor, you know more about 
Iwish than about Gweek) — you will wecollect, 
without doubt, a stowy nawwated by that cwedu- 
lous though fascinating ohwonicler, of a certain 
kind of sheep which is known only in a certain 
distwict of Awabia, and of which the tail is so 
enormous, that it either dwaggles on the gwound, 
or is bound up by the shepherds of the country 
into a small wheelbaw^'ow, or cart, which makes 
the chwonicler snee^vingly wemark that thus ' the 
sheep of Awabia have their own chawiots.' I 
have often thought, sir (this clawet is weally 
nectaweous) — I have often, I say, thought that 
the wace of man may be compawed to these 



202 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



Awabian sheep — genius is our tail, education our 
"wheelbawwaw. Without art and education to 
pwop it, this genius dwops on the gwound, and is 
polluted by the mud, or injiu-ed by the wocks 
upon the way : with the wheelbawwow it is 
strengthened, incweased, and supported — a pwide 
to the owner, a blessing to mankind." 

'' A very appropriate simile, ' says Sir John ; 
" and I am afraid that the genius of our friend 
Yellowplush has need of some such support." 

" Apropos," said BuUwig, " who is Yellowplush ? 
I was given to understand that the name was 
only a fictituous one, and that the papers were 
written by the author of tha 'Diary of a Phy- 
sician ; ' if so, the man, has wonderfully improved 
in style, and there is some hope of him." 

" Bah ! " said the Duke of Doublejowl ; " evrey 
body knows its Barnard, the celebrated author of 
' Sam Slick.'" 

"Pardon, my clear duke," said Lord Bagwig; 
"it's the authoress of ' High Life,' ' Almack's,' and 
other fashionable novels." 

" Fiddlestick's end 1 " says Doctor Larner ; "don't 
be blushing and pretending to ask questions : don't 
w^e know you, BuUwig ? It's you yourself, you 
thief of the world : we smoked you from the very 
beginning." 

BuUwig was about indignantly to reply, when 
Sir John interupted them, and said — " I must 
correct you all, gentlemen ; Mr. Yellowplush is 
no other than Mr. Yellowplush : he gave you, my 
dear Bulwig, your last glass of champagne at 
dinner, and is now an inmate of my house, and 
an ornament of my kitchen ! " 

" Gad ! " says Doublejowl, " let's have him up." 

" Hear, hear ! " says Bagwig. 

" Ah, now," says Larner, " your grace is not going 
to call up and talk to a footman,, sure 1 Is it 
gintale 1 " 

"To say the least of it," says BuUwig, "the 
pwactice is iwwegular, and indecowous ; and I 
weally don't see how the interview can be in any 
way pwofitable." 

But the vices of the company went against the 
two littery men, and everybody excep them was 
for having up poor me. The bell was wrung ; 
butler came. " Send up Charles," says master ; 
and Charles, who was standing behind the 
skreand, was j)ersnly abliged to come in. 

" Charles," says master, " I have been telling 
these gentlemen who is the author of the ' Yellow- 
plush Correspondence,' in Fixiser's llagazine." 

"It's the best magazine in Europe," says the 
duke. 

" And no mistake," says my lord. 

" Hwhat ! " says Larner ; " and where's the 
Litherary Chran 1 " 

I said myself notliing, but made a bough, and 
blusht like pickle-cabbitch. 



" Mr. Yellowplush," says his grace, " will you, in 
the first place, drink a glass of wine ? " 

I boughed agin. 

" And what wine do you prefer, sir ? humble 
port or imperial burgundy 1 " 

" Why, your grace," says I, " I know my place, 
and ain't above kitchen wines. I will take a glass 
of port, and drink it to the health of this honour- 
able company." 

When I'd swigged off the bumper, which his 
grace himself did me the honour to pour out for 
me, there was a silints for a minnit ; when my 
master said — 

" Charles Yellowplush, I have perused your 
memoirs in Fraser's Magazine with so much 
curiosity, and have so high an opinion of your 
talents as a writer, that I really cannot keep you 
as a footman any longer, or allow you to discharge 
duties for which you are now ciuite unfit. With 
all my admiration for your talents, Mr. YeUow- 
plush, I stUl am confident that many of your 
friends in the servants' haU will clean my boots 
a great deal better than a gentleman of your 
genius can ever be expected to do — it is for this 
purpose I employ footmen, and not that they may 
be writing in magazines. But — you need not look 
so red, my good fellow, and had better take 
another glass of port — I don't wish to throw you 
upon the wide world without the means of a 
livelihood, and have made interest for a little 
place which you wiU have under Government, 
and which will give you an income of eighty 
pounds per annum ; which you can double, I 
presume, by your literary labours." 

" Sir," says I, clasping my hands, and busting 
into tears, " do not — for heaven's sake, do not ! — 
think of any such think, or drive me from your 
suvvice, because I have been fool enough to write 
in magaseens. Glans but one moment at your 
honour's plate — every spoon is as bright as a 
mirror ; condysend to igsamine your shoes — your 
honour may see reflected in them the fases of 
every one in the company. / blacked them 
shoes, / cleaned that there plate. If occasionally 
I've forgot the footman in the litterary man, and 
committed to paper my remindicences of fashion- 
able life, it was from a sincere desire to do good, 
and promote noUitch : and I appeal to your 
honour — I lay my hand on my busm, and iu the 
fase of this noble company beg you to say. When 
you rung your beU, who came to you fust I When 
you stopt out at Brooke's till morning, who sat up 
for you"? When you was iU, who forgot the 
natral dignities of his station, and answered the 
two-pair belH Oh, Sir," says I, "I know what's 
what ; don't sent me away. I know them Uttery 
chaps, and, believe me, I'd rather be a footman. 
The work's not so hard, the pay is better, the 
vittels incompyrably supearor. I have but to 



A LITERARY DINNER. 



203 



clean my things, and run my errintis, and you put 
clothes ou my back, and meat in my mouth. Sir ! 
Mr. Bulhvig, an't I right? shall I quit my 
station and sink — that is to say, rise— to yours i " 
BuUwig was violently affected ; a tear stood in 
his glistening i. " Yellowplush," says he, seizing 
my hand, " you ca-e right. Quit not your present 
occupation ; black boots, clean knives, wear plush, 
all your Kfe, but don't turn literary man. Look 
at me. I am the first novelist in Europe. I have 
ranged with eagle wing over the wide regions of 
literature, and perched on every eminence in its 
turn. I have gazed with eagle eyes on the sun of 
philosophy, and fathomed the mysterious depths 
of the human mind. All languages are familiar to 
me, all thoughts are known to me, all men under- 
stood by me. I have gathered wisdom from the 
honeyed lips of Plato, as we wandered in the 
gardens of Acadames— wisdom, too, from the 
mouth of Job Johnson, as we smoked our 'baccy 
in Seven Dials. Such must be the studies, and 
such is the mission, in this world, of the Poet- 
Pliilosopher. But the knowledge is only empti- 
ness ; the initiation is but misery; the initiated, a 
man shunned and bann'd by his fellows. Oh," 
said BuUwig, clasping his hands, and throwing 
his fine i's up to the chandelier, "the curse of 
Pwometheus descends upon his wace. Wath and 
punishment pursue them from genewation to 
genewatio]! ! Wo to genius, the heaven-sealer, the 
fire-stealer ! Wo and thrice bitter desolation ! 
Earth is the woct on which Zeus, wemorseless, 
stwetches his withing victim — men, the vultures 
that feed and fatten on him. Ai, Ai ! it is agony 
eternal — g-woaning and soKtawy despair ! And you, 
Yellowplush, would penetwate these mystewies: 
you would waise the awful veil, and stand in the 
twemendous Pwesence. Beware ; as you value 
your peace, beware ! Withdwaw, wash Neophyte ! 
For heaven's sake — O for heaven's sake ! — " here 
he looked round with agony — " give me a glass of 
bwandy-and-water, for this clawet is beginiug to 
disagwee vpith me." 

BuUwig having concluded this spitch, very 
much to his own sattasfackshn, looked round the 
compny for aplaws, and then swigged ofl^ the glass 
of brandy-and-water, giving a solium sigh as he 
took the last gulph ; and then Doctor Ignatius, 
who longed for a chans, and, in order to show 
his independence, began flatly contradicting his 
friend, addressed me, and the rest of the genlmn 
present, in the following manner : — 

" Hark ye," says he, " my gossoon, doan't be led 
asthray by the nonsinse of that divil of a Bulhvig. 



He's jillous of ye, my bhoy ; that's the rale 
undoubted truth ; and it's only to keep you out of 
litherary life that he's palavering you in this way. 
I'U tell you what— Plush, ye blackguard— my 
honourable frind the mimber there has told me a 
hundred times, by the smallest computation, of 
his intense admiration of your talents, and the 
wonderful sthir they were making in the world. 
He can't bear a rival. He's mad with envy, 
hatred, oncharatableness. Look at him, Plush, 
and look at me. My father was not a juke 
exactly, nor aven a markis, and see, nevertheless, 
to what a pitch I am come. I spare no ixpinse ; 
I'm the editor of a couple of pariodicals ; I dthrive 
about in me carridge ; I dine wid the lords of the 
land ; and why — in the name of the piper that 
played before Moses, hwy? Because I'm a 
litherary man. Because I know how to play my 
cards. Because I'm Doctor Earner, in fact, and 
mimber of every society in and out of Europe. I 
might have remained all my life in Thrinity 
CoUedge, and never made such an incom as that 
offered you by Sir Jan ; but I came to London — 
to London, my boy, and now see ! Look again at 
me friend BuUwig. He is a gentleman, to be 
sure, and bad luck to 'im, say I ; and what has. 
been the result of his litherary labour 1 I'll tell 
you what ; and I'll teU this gintale society, by 
the shade of Saint Patrick, they're going to make 

him A BAEINET." 

"A BAENET, Doctor ! " says I ; "you don't mean 
to say they're going to make him a barnet ! And 
pray what for 1 " 

" What faw 1" says BuUwig. " Ask the histowy 
of litwatuwe what faw? Ask Colburn, ask 
Bentley, ask Saunders and Otley, ask the great 
Bwitish nation, .what faw ? On the thwone of 
Utewature I stand unwivalled, pwe-eminent ; and 
the Bwitish government, honomng genius in me, 
compliments the Bwitish nation by lifting into the 
bosom of the hewedita'wy nobility, the most gifted 
member of- the democwacy." (The honrabble 
genlm here sunk down amidst repeated cheers.) 

" Sir John," says I, " and my lord duke, the 
words of my rivrint frend Ignatius and the 
remarks of the honrabble genlmn who has just 
sate down, have made me change the detummina- 
tion which I had the honour of igspressing just 
now. 

" I igsept the eighty pound a year ; knowing- 
that I shall have plenty of time for pursuing my 
littery career, and hoping some day to set on that 
same bench of barranites, which is deckarated by 
the presnts of my honrabble friend." 



204 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 




[By ElCHARD LOVELACE.l 




HEN Love witt unconfined wings, 

Hovers within my gates, 
And my divine AltLea brings 

To wliisper at tlie grates ; 
When I lie tangled in her hair. 

And fettered to her eye, 
The birds that wanton in the air 

Know no such liberty. 



When flowing cups run swiftly round 

With no allaying Thames, 
Our careless heads with roses crowned, 

Our hearts with loyal flames ; 
When thirsty grief in wine we steep. 

When healths and draughts go free- 
Pishes that tipple in the deep 

Know no such liberty. 



When, linnet-like, confined, I 

With shriller throat shall sing 
The sweetness, mercy, majesty 

And glories of my King ; 
When I shall voice aloud how good 

He is, how great should be. 
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, 

Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make. 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage : 
If I have freedom in my love 

And in my soul am free. 
Angels alone, that soar above. 

Enjoy such liberty. 



IN WONDERLAND. 



205 



IN WONDEELAND. 

[From "Ti-av^4 aud Trout in the Antipodes." By William Senior.] 




I HE most wonderful object of this dis- 
trict we found to be at a place bear- 
ing the formidable name of Whakare- 
werewa. It is about two miles and 
a half through the fern from Ohine- 
muto. On the way we passed a large pond 
in continual toil and trouble from hot 
iF springs, one of which a few years ago 
■developed into a full-blown geyser forty feet high ; 
after remaining on view for a short time, it 

• suddenly retired from active business, and has 
never appeared since, showing that, if the people 
on this part of the earth are indolent, the forces 
beneath their feet are ever restless, and that sur- 
prising effects may be by them at any moment 
•created. A singidar country indeed ! Here was a 

• stream clear as crystal and cold as a glacier ; and 
within a narrow radius were heaps of sulphur and 
the debris of other eruptions, mud springs quiver- 
ing day and night, and ground perceptibly hot to 
the foot. We were riding through the flowering 
ti-tree and fern, and, hearing a vigorous bubbling 
amongst the undergrowth, puUed up to see a 
fountain of black boiling unsavoury mud which 
had but a short time since added itself unbidden 
to the strange sights of the district. Then we 
rode down a steep bank and over a creek which is 
fed by innumerable small geysers and hot springs, 
necessitating the utmost precision in following the 
footsteps of the guide's horse if we would emerge 
on the other side without boiled pasterns. The 
line of the river was marked by greater or lesser 
steam jets whose pure white wreaths curled grace- 
fully amongst the feathery ti-tree and hung 
lingering about its starry flowers. 

In the pumice country beyond, the gentleman 
who conducted us to the place lost a horse a year 
before, in a manner which explainsemphatically the 
nature of the country. He was riding at full speed 
through the fern ; the horse went into a hole, and 
he was shot yards ahead. Scrambling to his feet 
and rubbing the sparks out of his eyes, he found 
the horse gone. There was the newly-formed abyss, 
but no trace of the horse. Next day he came with 
ropes, and was lowered dovsm into a subterra- 
nean cavern sloping obliquely into thick darkness. 
Lower and lower he went, till his friends above 
came to the end of the tether, and then they drew 
him to bank to report that the pit seemed to be 
bottomless. It is needless, perhaps, to remark 
that nothing was ever heard or seen of the 
iiorse. 

*** ***■»* 

In the sweetly cool morning — cool as we should 



reckon coolness in England, and not in Sydney or 
Brisbane — we brushed the dew from the fern as we 
followed Kate and her posse of boatmen down 
the steep declivity which conducted to the boat 
waiting for us at the head of Lake Tarawera. 
Some day, when the Maoris are more yielding to 
the white lessees, there wiU no doubt be an hotel 
built at this spot, or on the higher banks to the 
right, overlooking the blue and charming lake. 
At present you have a tiresome walk to pay as the 
penalty of native obstinacy. But they are giving 
way by degrees. For instance, two years ago the 
voyage across Lake Tarawera would have been 
performed in a very low type of canoe, a mere dug- 
out, in which you were generally drenched and 
always cramped, and which, when it came on to 
blow, as it often does from the mountains, would 
be made an admirable excuse for delay. Now we 
found a capital whaleboat ready for launching, and 
there were two other craft of similar capacity in 
the rude sheds. We had a preliminary squabble 
about some rowlocks, for the use of which we were 
expected by another set of boatmen — rivals pre- 
sumably — to pay backsheesh. We, however, were 
firm as adamant, and ultimately got afloat. 

The shores of Tarawera are well wooded, and 
they present every variety of picturesque inden- 
tation, from rocky promontories and precipitous 
cliffs to tiny coves and gentle verdurous promon- 
tories ; some portions of the background of moun- 
tain were almost grand. By contrast with this 
larger lake, Eotomahana, to reach which we sub- 
mitted to be landed on the shoulders of our 
boatmen, bore out the first impression which every 
traveller records : that of an insignificant and even 
dirty-looking piece of water — some have even 
spoken of it contemptuously as a pond — in which 
marine vegetation shelters the wild fowl, which 
the natives protect as strictly as an English squire 
his partridges and pheasants. It is true the lake 
as a lake is nothing. Yet there is a peculiarity 
in the surroundings, in the steam clouds revolving 
over the hill, in the weird colour of the water 
itself, and in the bleak low ranges of the outer 
view. 

Shoes and stockings were here taken off, Kate 

having while in the boat set us an example, and 

we proceeded without loss of time to the White 

Terraces. The sun shone upon the wonderful 

' alabaster-like steps and upon the cascades pouring 

; from them, and put a million diamonds into the 

I small basins receiving the downfall. Always 

I white and smooth, in waves and drifts and ripples 

I as if there had been a mighty overflow of liquid 



206 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



alabaster suddenly congealed, these terraces in- 
vited us upward to the summit, where vaporous 
hangings were being agitated by their inherent 
vitality, and dispersed by the breeze, only to give 
place to other fleecy forms. Green underwood on 
either side brought out in startling contrast the 
snow-white material of the fairy terrace and the 
manifold hues of its dancing waters. Impercep- 
tibly, but not the less surely, the dripping overflow 
from above is daily adding its incrustations of 
silica. The favourite theory is that the terraces 
were originally an overflow of lava from an extinct 
volcano, and that the mineral properties of the 
water, flowing from what was the crater, gradually 
covered the rough, dingy pumice with its ermine- 
looking folds of drapery. Be that as it may, the 
effect is entrancing. 

The front of the terraces is roughly semicircular, 
and it narrows towards the top. The steps vary 
in height and width, being sometimes inches and 
sometimes feet. Many of the floors are hollowed 
out like shells, and at the time of our visit were 
fiUecl with water of exquisite blue tints. There 
were grey— French grey — shadings on the perpen- 
dicular walls of the steps, and very surprising was 
the combination of white, blue, and grey. The 
delicacy and purity of these dazzHng terrace stairs 
caused us to walk with hushed tread, and respect the 
fretwork, carvings, fantastic stalactite designs, and 
endless patterns wrought by the dripping water. 

At the summit are large basins of hot water. 
Visitors, when certain winds prevail, are not able 
to see through the dense curtains of steam. We 
wer& fortunate, for though, as the boUing went on 
below, occasional clouds obscured us, at times we 
had glimpses of the cerulean glory of the basins. 
The caldron-in-chief is a terrible affair. At first 
the yawning jsit (it is about forty yards across) 
was filled with fiercely moving steam, which 
buffeted the sides and escaped with a rush. Then, 
with a diabolical roar which made us draw back in 
haste from the coralline edging, the veil was rent, 
and for a few moments the fury of-i;his demon 
kettle's boiling was visible. The waters surged up- 
wards in appalling volume, madly charging right 
unci left, suddenly with vicious foam and thunder 
upheaving as if to overwhelm us, and then as 
suddenly sinking out of sight and filling the 
passages and caverns with dying shrieks and sighs. 
Appropriately to the letter, a dark recess in the 
side of a hill is called the Devil's Hole, and here 
the deafening uproar and ferocious turbulence 
were again seen. Space fails me to include in this 
description the lesser wonders of this land of 
mystery — the creamy mud pools boiling, writhing, 
spewing in awesome fashion ; the geyser pools 
spouting hot water, spitting steam jets, or emitting 
rumbling complaints not pleasant to hear ; the 
springs, great and small, gurgling musically like 



wine from the flask's throat, or bellowing hoarsely 
as if they would rend the solid rocks asunder. 

A canoe took us over the dingy green surface 
of Eotomahana to the Pink Terraces, so called 
because of the delicate tint assumed by the 
material of which they are formed. The pink, 
however, is not universal ; but the terraces are 
softer in character, calmer, more smiling, less 
threatening than those we had left. The steps are 
broader, the hollows deeper, as if the action of the 
mystic hands that had fashioned them had moved 
gently, rounding the marble edges, levelling or 
more boldly scooping the marble-like floors, and 
hanging the artistic folds and ornaments with more 
leisurely grace. 

Towards the top of this unique pile the terraces 
become deep basins, in which we bathed, beginning 
with the lowest and coldest, and ascending to the 
next and next, which increased in temperature 
until thus far and no further could we go. There 
we luxuriated, sitting upon the hard, smooth floor, 
the water covering every part of the body but the 
head and the fingers which held the cigarette. On 
the other side of the lake the great white terrace 
shone magnificently, its head stiU environed in 
whirling clouds of steam. Here we were at peace^ 
and serene, for the moment wishing for nothing 
else in the wide world. The bath ended at last, 
and we retired to the ti-tree scrub to dress. The 
moment we stepped out of the water the wind, 
which was in reality soft and soothing, seemed, by 
contrast with the element we had left, chill as 
charity, and we then began to wish — to wish for 
our clothes. 

Instead of the raging caldron of the White 
Terraces — suggesting a monster shed in the bowels 
of the earth, in which a hundred locomotives were 
blowing oif steam — the corresponding reservoir 
here was placid in appearance, though woe betide 
the being who plunged into its simmering depths. 
It was a circular pool with water so translucid that 
one did feel tempted to step into it. We waited 
a while for the steam to be wafted away, and the 
revelation was of marvellous sappliire, set in pearl 
and surrounded by an outer edge of canary-yellow. 
Lovelier blue, pearl, and amber mortal eye never 
saw. It must have been some such heavenly vision 
of colour that the exile on the Isle of Patmos 
beheld when he looked upon the foundation walls 
of thB New Jerusalem. 

In the canoe in which we voyaged down the 
romantic little river by which we returned to 
Tarawera we still spoke and mused of the wonders 
we had seen ; — seen, we each confessed, with ex- 
ceeding amazement. For myself, the roar of the 
caldrons was in my ears as we shot the rapids and 
brushed against the reeds, and the colours and 
forms of the terraces and their outpourings haunted 
me for many a day. 



THE VICAR'S GUEST. 



207 



THE BRIEFLESS BAEEISTEE. 

[By John G. Sase.] 




N Attorney was taking a 
turn, 
In shabby habiliments 
drest ; 
His coat it was shock- 
ingly worn, 
And the rust had in- 
vested his vest. 

His breeches had suffered 

a breach, 

; His linen and worsted 
I 

were worse ; 

He had scarce a whole 

crown in his hat, 

And not half a crown in his purse. 

And thus as he wandered along, 

A cheerless and comfortless elf. 
He sought for relief in a song, 

Or complainingly talked of himself : 

" Unfortunate man that I am '. 

I've never a client but Grief, 
The case is, I've no case at all, 

And in brief, I've ne'er had a brief ! 

■" I've waited and waited in vain. 

Expecting an ' opening ' to find. 
Where an honest young lawyer might gain 

Some reward for the toil of his mind. 

" 'Tis not that I'm wanting in law, 

Or lack an intelligent face. 
That others have cases to jilead, 

While I have to plead for a case. 



" O, how can a modest young man 
E'er hope for the smallest progression—-- 

The profession's already so fidl 
Of lawyers so full of ijrofessiou ! " 

While thus he was strolling around, 

His eye accidentally fell 
On a very deep hole in the ground. 

And he sighed to himself, " It is well ! " 

To curb his emotions, he sat 

On the curb-stone the space of a minute, 
Then cried, " Here's an opening at last ! " 

And in less than a jiffy was in it ! 

Next morning twelve citizens came 
(Twas the coroner bade them attend). 

To the end that it might be determined 
How the man had determined his end ! 

" The man was a lawyer, I hear," 

Quoth the foreman who sat on the corse ; 

" A lawyer 1 Alas ! " said another, 
" Undoubtedly he died of remorse ! " 

A third said, " He knew the deceased, 
An attorney well versed in the laws. 

And as to the cause of his death, 

'Twas no doubt from the want of a cause." 

The jm-y decided at length, 

After solemnly weighing the matter, 
" That the lawyer was druwncfed, because 

He could not keep his head above water ! '■ 



THE YICAE'S GUEST. 

[By Thomas Akcher.] 




^OW it was that we began seriously to 
consider the expediency of organising 
" Penny Readings " in the schoolroom 
attached to the cxuaint old square- 
towered church at Che'O'ton Cudley 
I haven't the remotest idea. I fancy it must have 
been Mr. Petifer, the curate, who suggested it after 
he had been to preach for a friend of his in Lon- 
don. I know that he was much impressed by 
what the congregation of St. Simeon Stylites — his 
friend's church — were doinr, and that there was a 



noticeable difference in his delivery when he read 
the lessons after his visit. 

The truth is that we had few changes of any 
kind at Chewtou. It had ceased to be a market 
town when the new line of railway took the three 
coaches off the road, and opened a branch to 
Noxby ; and though the tradesfolk contrived ta 
keep their shops open they did a very quiet busi- 
ness indeed. There was nothing actively specula- 
tive about the place, and the motto of the town 
was "Slow and sure." From the two maiden 



208 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



ladies — tlie Misses Twitwold who kept tlie circu- 
lating library, and sold stationery and Berlin wool 
— to the brewer who owned half the beershops, or 
the landlord of the " George and Gate," who 
kept a select stud of saddle - horses, and had 
promoted the tradesmen's club — nobody was ever 
seen in a hurry, not even the doctor who had come 
to take old Mr. Varico's practice, and was quite a 
young man from the hospitals. He began by 
bustling about, and walking as though he was out 
for a wager, and speaking as though he expected 
people to do things in a minute ; but he soon got 
over that. Folks at Chewton Cudley had a way 
of looking with a slow, placid, immovable stare at 
anybody who showed unseemly haste. If they 
were told to " be quick" or to " look sharp," they 
would leave what they were about to gaze with a 
cow-like serenity at the disturber. It was quite a 
lesson in placidity even to watch a farm-labourer 
or a workman sit on a gate or a cart-shaft to eat a 
slice of bread and cheese. Each bite was only 
taken after a deliberate investigation of the sides 
and edges of the hunch, and was slowly masticated 
during a peculiar ruminating survey of surround- 
ing objects. The possessor of a clasp-knife never 
closed it with a click ; and if any adult person 
had been seen to run along the High Street public 
attention would have been aroused by the event. 

The vicar was really the most active person in 
the town ; and though he had lived there in the 
quaint, ivy-covered parsonage house for twenty 
years, and had been constantly among his 
parishioners, he had the same bright, pleasant, 
and yet grave smile, the same quick, easy step, 
the same Lively way with children and old women, 
the same impatient toleration of " dawdlers," as 
had distinguished him on his first coming. He 
had been a famous cricketer at college, and one of 
the first things he did was to form" a cricket club ; 
but he always said the batsman waited to watch 
the ball knock down the wicket, and the fielders 
stood staring into space when they ought to have 
made a catch. This was his fun, of course, and 
the cricket club flourished in a sedate, slow- 
bowling sort of way. So did the penny bank, and 
the evening school, and the sewing-class — for he 
was well loved, was our vicar, in spite, or perhaps 
because, of his offering such a contrast to the 
larger number of his flock. 

He was a bachelor, and his sister kept house for 
him — a quiet, middle-aged lady, a little older than 
himself, and more accomplished than most of the 
Chewton ladies were, not only in music and needle- 
work, but in the matter of pickles, puddings, pre- 
serves, and domestic medicine, about which she 
and the doctor had many pleasant discussions, as 
he declared she was the best friend he had, since 
her herb tea and electuaries made people fancy 
they were ill enough to send for him to complete 



their cure. That the vicar should have remained, 
unmarried for so many years had almost ceased to- 
be a topic of speculation, for it had somehow 
become known that some great sorrow had be- 
fallen him years before, and it was supposed that 
he had been " crossed in love ; " though, to give 
them credit, there were unmarried ladies of the 
congregation who never could and never would 
believe that a young man such as he must have 
been could have spoken in vain to any well- 
regulated young person possessed of a heart. 
They came to the conclusion, therefore, that he 
never told his love ; and as he had certainly never 
told it to them, only a few of his more intimate 
friends knew that the shadow which had fallen on 
the lives of those two kindly beings at the vicarage 
was the early marriage of a younger sister with 
some adventurer who had taken her away from 
the home to which she never afterwards returned, 
and only occasional tidings were received that she 
was seldom to be found at any stated address, and 
was travelling with her husband from one poor 
lodging to another in the large towns, where they 
had sometimes sought for her in vain. 

But the vicar was no kill-joy. He entered with 
hearty good will into the scheme for weekly penny 
readings, and delivered an addre.ss at the pre- 
liminary meeting, in which he alluded with a sly 
touch of humour to the capabilities of Mr. Binks, 
the saddler, who was reputed to sing a famous 
comic song, and of Easpall, the baker, who had 
once tried his hand at an original Christmas carol. 
He even called upon the ladies — and we were all 
of us rather shocked at the time — to bring their 
music ; and as a piano had actually been hired 
from somewhere, and stood on the platform, he 
called upon his sister for a song there and then, 
and she actually — we vjere surprised — sang one of 
those old Enghsh ballads to hear which we had 
regarded as the sole privilege of the select few who- 
were invited to take tea at the vicarage at the 
sewing meetings which we had associated with the 
name of Dorcas the widow. We should as soon 
have thought of seeing Dorcas herself at a sewing 
machine as the vicar's sister at a piano in puhlir, — 
but she sang very well, and the applause at th& 
back of the room was uproarious. 

So it was when the vicar himself followed with 
Macaulay's " Lay of Horatius," though of course- 
it was only intended for the front rows — for how 
could the tradespeople and the labourers under- 
stand it ? The eldest Miss Eumbelow was 
persuaded to attempt one of Moore's melodies, 
and selected "Young Love Once dwelt," with a 
singularly wiry accompaniment, and this having 
restored complete decorum, the curate came for- 
ward in a surprising manner, and astonished us by 
that change in voice and delivery to which reference 
has already been made. He had chosen " The 



THE VICAR'S GUEST. 



209 



Dream of Eugene Aram " as liis recitation, and 
the tone in vvhicli lie announced the title was, 
as Mrs. Multover said, "like cold water running 
down your back." Every breath was held, every 
eye started as he told us — 

" 'Twors in the prame of summerer tame, 
All eveu-ing ca-alm and kheoule. 
And f ower-and-twanty liappy bales 
Cam bounding out of skheouie." 

The boys shifted uneasily on their seats ; their 



This first meeting of our '• Penny Beading " 
Society gave a decided tone to our subsequent 
proceedings, but still we had made but slow 
progress, and there was still some difficulty in 
inducing many of the readers to meet the 
audible remarks, the half-concealed mirth, and 
even the exaggerated applause of their audiences, 
when the vicar one evening announced his 
intention of leaving Chewton for a fortnight 
on a visit to London, and coming back in 




Our Penny Beading. 



master looked anxious, as though something per- 
sonal was coming ; and when the drama reached 
its height we timid ones in front were fain to pinch 
each other in a stress of nervous excitement. The 
tragical conclusion was marked by a simultaneous, 
low, long, agricultural whistle, which did duty as 
a sigh, and the audience first stared into each 
other's faces and then gave a roar of applause, 
amidst which the vicar announced that the penny 
readings were established from that night ; that 
books containing suitable pieces for recitation 
could be obtained at the circulating library ; and 
that practice nights for efficient members would be 
held on Wednesday evenings. 

But everybody went away impressed with Mr. 
Petifer's sudden accession of dramatic power. 
2a 



time to prepare a grand entertainment for 
Christmas. 

It wanted only three weeks to Christmas when 
the vicar returned, and told his sister to have the 
guest's room got ready, as he expected a profes- 
sional gentleman from Londoji to visit him in a 
day or two. It was on the Wednesday that the 
idlers about the old coach-yard of the " George and 
Gate " woke up from their usual expressionless 
stare at things in general to notice a stranger who 
came along at a brisk rate, carrying a small port- 
manteau, and looking sharply, and with a quick 
penetrating glance at them and the sign and the 
bar of the tap, where he called for a glass of ale 
and inquired his way to the vicarage. He was a 
well-knit, activ": man of about forty-five, with dark, 



210 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



glossy hair, just beginning to turn grey ; a dark, 
short moustaclie ; shaven cheeks and chin, with a 
blue tinge where the beard and whiskers would have 
been ; and he wore weU-fitting but rather shabby 
clothes, which scarcely seemed to be in keeping 
with the big (false or real) diamond ring on his 
right hand and a huge breast-pin in his satin 
stock. 

These were the remarks some of us made about 
him when he appeared on the low platform at our 
penny reading the next evening, and was intro- 
duced by the vicar as '' My friend, Mr. Walter De 
Montfort, a gentleman connected with the dramatic 
profession in London, who has consented to favour 
us with a reading, and to contribute to our improve- 
ment as well as to our entertainment." 

A good many of us thouglit we had never heard 
reading, or rather recitation, till that evening ; 
there was such a keen, bright, intense look in the 
man's face ; such a rich, flexible, sonorous roll in 
his voice : such a conscious appropriateness in his 
rather exaggerated gestures, that when he com- 
menced with what I have since learnt was a 
peculiarly stagey expression, the poem of " King 
Robert of Sicily and the Angel," and began to teU 
us how — 

" King-ai-Rrobenit of Sissurlee '' 

dreamed his wonderful dream, we were all eye and 
ear, and when he had concluded people looked at 
each other and gasped. 

Who was he 1 — an actor — a manager of a theatre 
— a great tragedian 1 How did the vicar first know 
him ? How long was he going to stay 1 What 
theatre did he perform at? All these questions 
were asked among ourselves, and to some of them 
we obtained answers at the next Dorcas, which Avas 
held at the vicarage for the last time before Christ- 
mas. Mr. De Montfort was not a regular actor 
now. He had been, but he now taught elocution 
and deportment, and had been introduced to the 
vicar by a brother clergyman in London. His 
credentials were undoubted, but it was feared he 
was poor. Of his ability everybody spoke highly, 
and he was so accomplished that the vicar had 
invited him to stay over Christmas, but he had 
told them lie must be in London, for he was 
a widower, with one little child, a girl who 
was at school, but would be waiting for him to 
fetch her home for her one week's holiday iu 
the year. 

Mr. De Montfort had grown more familiar to the 
Chewton Cudley people by that time. He had only 
been with them a few days, and yet he had a dozen 
invitations. The vicar had evidently taken an un- 
accountable liking to him. There were even people 
who went so far as to say we should hear him read 
the lessons in church if lie were to stay over 
another Sunday. He had been to two more penny 



readings, and had held an extra night for instruct- 
ing some of the members in the art of elocution. 
Only three people seemed rather doubtful as to 
their opinion of the visitor. One of these was the 
vicar's sister. She said nothing slighting, but it 
was evident she mistrusted him a little. Another 
was Mr. Petifer, and his coolness to the stranger 
was set down to jealousy, especially when he fired 
up on the subject of the probable reading of the 
lessons. The third was Mr. Fenmi, the doctor, but 
he only grinned, and said he thought he remem- 
bered having heard De Montfort ratite under 
another name when he was a student at Guy's 
and used to go to the "Cat and Fiddle" in the 
Walworth Road. " It's dreadful to hear a doctor 
talk so," said Mrs. Marchbold ; " these young 
medical men have no reverence." 

But Christmas was drawing near. The church 
was to be decorated with holly. The vicar went 
about smiling and jovial, while even Mr. Petifer 
made a sort of truce with the visitor, who showed 
such remarkable resources and such excellent taste 
in putting up the evergreens, and was so sedate 
and respectful to all the ladies, that I fancy there 
was something said about his bringing his little 
daughter down to Chewton for the holidays. Mr. 
Binks would have taken De Montfort off the 
vicar's hands hi a minute. Raspall was heard 
to intimate that he had a nice warm spare room 
over the bakehouse doing nothing ; and our prin- 
cipal butcher, Mr. Clodd, declared boldly that a 
man like that, who could amuse any company, 
and was fit for any company, was worth his 
meat anywhere at holiday-time. 

But it only wanted a few hours to Christinas 
Eve, and Mr. De Montfort was about to leave. 
He had received an invitation from the landlady 
of the " George and Gate," countersigned by the 
members of the club, to spend the last evening 
with them, and they had even gone so far as to 
wish that the vicar himself — " if they might make 
so bold — would condescend to look in for an 
hour." 

This request of course could not be complied 
with, and the guest was about to send a polite 
refusal — reluctantly, it must be confessed — but 
the vicar readily excused hiin. The townsfolk 
naturally wanted to have him among them again 
for an evening, and he could return about eleven 
for a glass of hot spiced elder wine before going to 
bed. The vicar had put his hand on De Montfort's 
shoulder as he said this, and was looking at him in 
his kind, genial way, when his visitor looked up, 
rose, hesitated, and seemed about to say some- 
thing. There was such a remarkable expression 
in his face that the good parson afterwards said 
he should never forget it ; but it passed, and with 
a smile, which was half trustful, half sorrowful, the 
actor turned away. 



THE VICAR'S GUEST. 



211 



" Well, then, if you think I ought to go, I'll say 
yes," he replied ; '' but I had thought to spend the 
last night here with you." 

"I shan't have done work much before ten 
myself," said the vicar ; " for I must see about 
the beef and bread for the pensioners, and there's 
the new silver money and the cakes for the school 
children, and no end of things. So we'll meet 
at a late supper ; don't stay to the club pies 
and sausages, but get back in time for ours. 
There's no need to say don't drink too 
much of the ' George and Gate ' ale and grog, 
for you never take much of either, so far as I 
know." 

It was a special evening at the " George and 
Gate," and every member of the club who could 
leave his shop was there by eight o'clock. The 
low-ceilinged but handsome parlour was all bright 
with holly, and the plate stood on a sideboard 
ready for supper. Two noble punchbowls graced 
the table, and two sheaves of spotless churchwarden 
pipes supported the large brass coffer filled with 
tobacco, which opened only by some cunning 
mechanism, set in motion by dropping a half- 
penny in a slit at the top. Mr. Binks was in the 
chair ; Clodd, the butcher, sat opposite ; a great 
fragrance of spice and lemon peel pei'vaded the 
place. It only needed a speech to commence the 
proceedings, and Mr. Binks was equal to the occa- 
sion. It was a hearty welcome to the vicar's guest. 
He responded with a few words and a recitation. 
There was a song and another toast, and then the 
accomplished visitor played on the " George and 
Gate" fiddle in a manner that astonished every- 
body — played it behind his back, over his head, 
under his arm, between his knees with the bow 
in his mouth. The fun was uproarious till he 
repeated a poem with a tragedy in it ; then he 
showed a few tricks with the cards, spun jjlates, 
passed coins and watches into space, and sang a 
song with a violin accompaniment. The evening 
was in his honour, and he opened his whole reper- 
toire of accomplishments. Time passed quickly ; 
the waiters were at the door with the tablecloths 
ready to lay for supper. There were just glasses 
round left in the punch bowl. Mr. Clodd proposed 
" The Health of the Vicar." They all rose to do 
it honour, and called upon De Montfort to reply. 
He had his glass in his hand— just touching it 
with his lips. " I wish," he said, and then he 
stopped ; " I wish— I could say what I would do 
to deserve that he should call me his friend," he 
said; "but — it — can — never — be." They wondered 
what he would say next, there was such a strange 
look in his eyes. They were about to ask him 
what he meant, when everybody there v/as startled 
by a sudden cry in the street — a sudden cry and 
an uproar that penetrated to the inn-yard — the 
cry of " Fire !" and the trampling of feet. They 



were all out in a minute, De Montfort first, and 
without his hat. 

" It's your place, Easpall, as I'm a living 
sinner," said Clodd, forcing himself to the fi-ont 
and commencing to run. 

" Don't say so ! Don't say so ! " cried the baker, 
"for my missis is up at the school makin' the 
cakes, and the man's down below settin' the batch, 
and my little Bess is in bed this hour an' more ! 
Good — ^ ! Oh, help 1 help ! where's that 
engine 1 " But the key of the engine house had 
to be found, and the wretched old squirt had to be 
wheeled out, and the hose attached and righted ; 
and before all this could be done, the flame which 
seemed to have begun at the back of Easpall's 
shop, had burst through the shutters, and was 
already lapping the outer wall. It was an old- 
fashioned house, with a high, ricketty portico over 
the door, and a tall, narrow window a good way 
above it. 

At this window, where the flicker of the flame 
was reflected through the smoke that was now 
pouring out and blackening the old woodwork, a 
glimpse of a child's face had been seen, and Easpall 
was already in the roadway wringing his hands and 
calling for a ladder. 

" We must get her down from the top of that 
there portico," cried Clodd ; " but I 'm too heavy. 
Here ; who'll jump a' top of my back, and so try 
to clamber up 1 " 

" Stand away there ! " shouted a strong, deep 
voice ; and almost before they could move aside a 
man shot past them like a catapult, and with one 
bound had reached the carved cornice of the 
portico with his right hand. The whole structure 
quivered, but in another moment he had drawn 
himself up with the ease of a practised acrobat, 
and was standing on the top. It was De Mont- 
fort. 

The window was still far above him, and the 
glare within showed that the fire had reached the 
room ; but a gutter ran do^vn the wall to the 
leaden roof of the portico, and he was seen 
through the smoke to clasp it by a rusty projection 
and to draw his chin on a level with the sill, to 
cling to the sill itself with his arm and elbow, and 
with one tremendous effort to sit there amidst the 
smoke and to force the sash upward. They had 
scarcely had time to cry out that he had entered 
the room when he was out again — pursued by the 
flame that now roared from the open space, but 
with something under his arm. Somebody had 
brought out a large blanket, and four men were 
holding it ; the engine was just beginning to play 
feebly where it wasn't wantisd ; and a short ladder 
had been borrowed from somewhere. He dropped 
a little heavily from the window, but was on his 
feet when they called to him to let the child fall, 
and a cheer went up as he seemed to gather up hi* 



212 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



strength, and tossed liis living burden from him so 
that it cleared the edge of the woodwork and was 
caught and placed in her father's arms. 

" Jump ! jump for your life ! " they cried, for the 
wretched portico had begun to sway, and every lip 
turned white. It was too late : he had stooped to 
swing himself oflf when the whole thing fell in 
ruin, and he in the midst of it, covered with 



Raspall was crying more for the accident than for 
his injured house, which was still smoiddering, 
though the engine had at last put out the fire. 
His child was safe, but he felt almost guilty for 
rejoicing that her life had been spared. Binks and 
Clodd sat j)atiently on the fence opposite the 
vicarage, talking in low tones. At last the vicar 
came out to them, and told them to go home. The 




'He seemed to gather up his strength." {Dran-n h'l ]V. H. Ovcrcnd 



the heavy lead and woodwork and the stone and 
bricks that had come down with it. 

A score of strong and willing hands lifted the 
wreck away piecemeal, and, under the direction of 
the doctor, got him out, and placed him on a 
hurdle made soft with blankets and straw. He 
was insensible, hut his face and head were un- 
injured, for he was found lying -n'ith his arms pro- 
tecting both. Carefully they bore him to the 
vicarage, the vicar following, and his sister already 
at the door with everything ready. 

It was nearly an hour before the sad group of 
men who stood outside anxiously waiting heard 
that he was so seriously injured that his life was 
in danger, and that he was still unconscious. 



patient would not be left for a moment. In the 
morning he would let them know if there was any 
change. 

There was a change, but only after long efforts 
to restore consciousness ; and the vicar himself sat 
by the injured man's bedside, with something in 
his hand upon which his tears fell as he looked at 
it by the light of the shaded lamp. When De 
Montfort had been carried in and placed upon the 
bed the doctor had asked to be allowed to undress 
him — without help — as it required a practised 
hand, and for a moment the vicar left the room to 
bring up some restorative and the bandages which 
had been sent for to the surgery. He had turned 
into the dining-room, when to his surprise the 



THE SHIPWRECK. 



213 



doctor came quickly but softly downstairs, entered 
the room, and gently closed the door. 

" Do you feel that you could bear another great 
shock just now ? " he said, in a curious tone, taking 
hold of the vicar's wrist as he spoke. " Yes, I 
think you can ; your nerves are pretty firm." 

" What do you mean ? Is he dead f " 

" No ; but I have undressed him, and under 
his shirt near his heart found something which 
I think you ought to see. I may be mistaken, 
but I seldom miss observing a likeness, especially 
one so strong as this " — and he held out a 
locket attached to a sUken cord and holding a 
likeness. 

The vicar trembled as he stretched out his hand 
for it. Some prevision of the truth had ah'eady 
flashed upon him ; and as he cari-ied the trinket 
to the candle above the mantelpiece, he leaned 
heavily against the wall and groaned as though 
he had been smitten with sudden pain. 

" A man like that could scarcely have been cruel 
to a woman, at all events," said the doctor, in 
a low but emphatic tone. " Poverty is not the 
worst of human ills, and even occasional want, 
if it be not too prolonged, is endura,ble — more 
endurable than brutal neglect and indifference. 
This poor fellow was going home to his child, I 
think l" 

The vicar clasped the young man's hand, and 
bent his noble grey head upon his shoulder. 



" Take my thanks, my dear friend," he said, with 
a sob. " You have recalled me to myself. He was 
my sister's husband." 

As the vicar sat by the bedside on the Christ- 
mas Eve, watching, the injured man moved 
and tried to raise himself, but fell back with a 
heavy sigh. 

The good parson was bending over him in a 
moment. 

" Shall I fetch the doctor again ? " he asked. 

" No ; I must speak to you now, alone." 

It was nearly an hour before the vicar went to 
the stair-head, and called for his sister and tha 
doctor to come up ; but we never heard quite what 
took place — what was the conversation between 
the vicar and his guest. But the next day the 
vicar went to London, and before the new year a 
plain funeral went from the vicarage to the old 
churchyard, and the curate conducting the Burial 
Service had to stop with his handkerchief to his 
eyes, for in the church, clad in deep mourning, was 
a little girl whose silent sobbing was only hushed 
when the aunt whom she had but just found took 
her in her arms and pressed the little pale face to 
her bosom. 

Nobody knew what name was on the locket, for 
it was replaced where it so long had rested, and 
was buried when the heart beneath it had ceased 
to beat ; but the name afterwards carved on the 
tombstone was not De Montfort. 



THE SHIPWEECE. 

[From "Sir Edward Seaward's Narrative."] 




E sailed from 
Bristol on the 
30th of October, 
1733, with a fine 
breeze from the 
eastward. On 
going down the 
river Avon in a 
boat, to join the 
brig at King- 
road, my wife 
was charmed by 
the scenery on 
each side of the 
banks. St. Vin- 
cent's rocks pre- 
sented a sublime 
object on the right side ; " I shall never forget 
this scene," she observed, "it is so impressive." 
She did not then know that a time was not far 
distant, when her abode would be under such a 
rock, equally precipitous, but more gigantic, 



The wind was fair ; we sailed down the Bristol 
C'hannel, with iine weather and smooth water. It 
blew fresh from the north-west, after passing 
Lundy Island. Eliza was very sick, and the 
captain was in bad humour, so that we were far 
from comfortable ; but the wind changed again, 
and with it returned our lively sense of present 
happiness. In three weeks we got into the trade 
winds ; in little more than five weeks, we passed 
through the Mona passage, between Porto Kico 
and Hispaniola ; and on the day six weeks of 
quitting the Bristol Channel, we made the east 
end of Jamaica. We were charmed by the 
superb face of the whole country. The sky was 
brilliant and cloudless, the breeze fair and refresh- 
ing : our spirits were proportionally buoyant ; anr' 
as the vessel ran along shore for Port Royal, all th 
next day our delight was kept alive by the nevniesi 
and vastness of the scenery which lay upon our right. 

A negro pilot came on board, as we neared Port 
Royal. Eliza was a good deal struck by his 
appearance and way of speaking, which, being 



214 



GLEANINGS FROM. POPULAR AUTHORS. 



nothing new to me, I hardly noticed ; but to 
her he was, at that moment, the representative of 
the whole negro population. We soon hauled 
round Port Royal point, the sandy foundation of 
a small town of little importance. But many 
years ago, on the space we now sailed over, its 
ancestor had stood, which, they say, like Sodom 
and Gomorrah, having become tlie seat of all 
licentiousness, was swallowed up by an earthquake 
in 169i 

We had nothing to do at Port Royal, but 
worked up to Kingston against the sea-breeze; 
and came to, oft" the town, as the breeze was dying 
away. Mr. Dickinson, my uncle's friend, was 
absent in the country at his penn ; we therefore 
determined to remain on board all night. About 
nine o'clock next morning, we received a visit 
from him, and he insisted that we should take 
up our residence at his penn during- our stay, 
which we gladly accepted ; and after I had made 
arrangements with him, he drove myself and wife 
out into the country, where we were agreeably 
entertained by the hospitality of our friend, and 
the novelty of all we saw. 

The brig was under weigh at eleven o'clock, 
and we ran down to Port .Royal, a distance of 
eight or nine miles, in little more than an hour. 
With the same fine breeze, we stood out to sea, 
and shaped our course to the southward, to keep 
clear of the Pedro shoals ; and we found by our 
reckoning on Tuesday at noon, that we must have 
run nearly two hundred miles during the last 
twenty -four hours. 

The wind now veered to the n".e. and n.n.e. in 
squalls, looking sometimes very black to wind- 
ward. Towards evening I requested the captain 
to lay to under easy sail till daylight, as we were 
now approaching the main land, where the .shoals 
and rocks were numerous, and not accurately laid 
down on the chart ; but although he made her 
snug, he woiald keep his course, to get in under 
the island of Rattan in the morning, if possible ; 
and I was obliged to yield to his determination. 
One of the men said we .should have a hurricane : 
" The hurricane months are over, you blackguard," 
replied the captain, angrily. The man, however, 
appeared to know what-he was talking about, and 
I, for one, believed him ; but the captain laughed 
at him, after his choler had subsided. I then 
thought it quite time to insist on the dead lights 
being put in, to secure the cabin windows again.st 
the violence of the sea, if it should break up 
against them ; and they were scarcely secured, 
when it began to thunder and rain in torrents. 
My poor dear wife had been induced to go below 
a little before the storm came on, by the sudden 
and awful blackness of the sky ; and although I 
did not remain five minutes after her, I was 



thoroughly wetted to the skin, before 1 could 
get oft' deck. I had scarcely entered the cabin, 
when the ^^dnd arose with such violence, that 
the brig in an instant seemed on her beam ends. 
At this moment I thought I heard some one fall 
down the companion ladder ; and going to see 
who or what it was that had made the unlucky 
tumble, I found my two goats, which some one 
had thrown there out of the way, as the door was 
immediately closed down after them, to keep the 
sea from rolling into the cabin. 

I now endeavoured to console my wife, who 
bestowed reciprocal con.solations on myself. "God 
will preserve us ! " said she ; " I feel that 
we are safe, notwithstanding this dreadful 
hurricane : but if we .should be drowned, we 
shall die together, and we shall not be sepa 
rated : we shall meet where we can part no more." 
Her feelings now overpowered her, and she fell 
on my neck and wept. I kissed away the tears 
from her eyes, saying, "We will trust in the 
Almighty." 

I wanted to go on deck, but was not able to 
effect it. I, however, got the people there to open 
one of the side doors a little, and I peeped out. 
The wind howled horribly, and the sea was all 
in a foam. Two of the hands, and the yawl, 
had been washed overboard. We continued to 
be driven by the storm for eight or ten hours, I 
cannot tell in what direction ; but about two or 
three o'clock in the morning, they called out, 
" Breakers ! breakers ! land ! breakers ! " Hear- 
ing this, I got up the ladder to the companion 
door. All was again fast down, and they could 
not open it. Li a few minutes the vessel struck, 
and we, who were below, were thrown violently 
on the cabin floor. The poor dog, our faithful 
Fidele, howled mournfully as he was driven to 
the further end of the cabin. " We are indeed 
lost ! " said my wife, as she recovered a little from 
the fall she had just received. I did not now wait 
to console her by my words : I renewed my efforts 
to force the companion door, and get upon deck ; 
but they could not hear me for the noise made 
by the howling of the wind and the breaking of 
the sea ; yet I sometimes heard them, and could 
discover that they were making ready to get the 
long boat over the gunwale to escape. I now 
became frantic ; and hallooed with all my power, 
but to no purpose. By accident I stumbled over 
an empty stone bottle at the foot of the ladder, 
with wliich I struck the companion door so 
violently that I succeeded in arresting the atten- 
tion of the captain. He unbolted it, telling me 
at the same time, " We are all lost ! " but that the 
men were trying to launch the long boat, our only 
chance ; and if j\Irs. Seaward and I chose to go, 
we must be up in a second ; for, " look there ! " 
said he, crying out at, the same time, "anotJier 



THE SHIPWEECK. 



215 



shove, lads, and she's all our own ! " — the long 
boat was launched, and I returned down the 
ladder with all speed. The moment I rejoined 
my dear wife, I urged her instantly to accompany 
me to the deck, telling her our situation. " No ! " 
said she, " I ■\vill not stir, and you will not 
stir ; they must all perish ; a boat cannot 
endure this storm. Let us trust in God, 
Edward," continued she, "and if we die, we 
die together." — "It is done," I replied; "we 
will not stir." — " Then tell them so," cried she, 
hastUy ; " and if you can lay your hand on the 
bread-bag in your way, it may be useful to them, 
if they survive this hour." I ascended; but no 
boat was to be seen, yet now and then I thought 
I heard the voices of the miserable crew at some 
distance, on the brig's quarter ; and sometimes I 
fancied I saw them, when the strong lightning's 
glare lighted up everything around for an instant. 
The brig soon took the ground on a reef within, 
and heeled over, which threw me down the ladder. 
My wife hastened to my assistance, but was her- 
self thrown to the other side of the cabin. More 
than an hour passed away with us thus, in dismal 
darkness below ; but we enjoyed the light of God's 
presence, and were resigned to his wiU. 

We sat endeavouring to keep our position, and so 
remained till the heaving motion of the vessel 
gradually subsided, and at length became scarcely 
perceptible ; but she continued to lie over nearly 
on her beam-ends. I now again thought it right 
to reach the deck ; on ascending the ladder, I 
pushed open the lee half of the companion door, 
when a gleam of joy rushed upon me, on per- 
ceiving that the day had dawned, and that the 
water to leeward was quite smooth. There was 
high land a-head and a-stern, and a fine sandy 
beach abreast of us, little more than a mile off. 
I hastened below to my wiie, into the dark cabin, 
exclaiming, " Come on deck ; it is daylight ! " 
Without a word, she ascended the ladder. On 
emerging from darkness into light, her feelings 
overcame her, and she poured forth her heart 
to God. After a few moments of abstraction, 
" AVhere is the boat and our poor companions 1 " 
she exclaimed ; " I do not see them J " — " Per- 
hap.s," I rephed, " they are safely landed on yon 
beach, and -ndll soon return to take us out of the 
vessel." I now looked earnestly around me : the 
mainmast was gone, but the stump was standing ; 
all the fowls in the coop to leeward were drowned : 
the ducks, which were in the other coop, survived, 
and also four fowls ; yet these seemed more dead 
than alive. All was desolation on deck and aloft ; 
but the morning smiled serenely on us, while a 
gentle calm spread itself over the ocean all 
around. 

The land astern seemed high, and well- wooded ; 
but our eyes were attracted by the smooth sandy 



shore, where we wished and hoped to be ; and 
our attention became gradually riveted on a 
promontory, distant about three miles, upon 
which the rising sun shone directly. We looked 
in every direction for the boat, but in vain ; and 
then sad misgivings for the fate of the crew 
crossed our mind, which extended to ourselves ; 
for we depended on them as a mean.s, and, indeed, 
the only ]3robable means, of our own escape from 
this unknown shore. I fortunately thought I 
would try the pump.s. I went to work, and 
kept pumping till I was quite exhausted, and 
the water .still came up as alumdantly as ever. 
I concluded the brig's bottom must be stove in, 
so that if we should beat off the reef into deep 
water, we must sink and go down. 

About ten o'clock in the forenoon, the breeze 
began to set in from the sea, nearly E.N.E., and the 
brig worked fore and aft. I told my wife what 
my fears were, and that if it so happened, we 
must endeavour to climb the fore-rigging, and 
take the chance from thence of any escape that 
might offer. 

The sea-breeze freshened, and in half an hour 
the brig's stern swung off into deep water, and 
she hung by the bow. She now righted ; I there- 
fore hnmediately went to see if the rudder was 
gone, which I had every reason to expect, but it 
was not ; and at this I rejoiced greatly, exclaim- 
ing, " The rudder is safe ; that's well ! " At 
length the brig broke adrift, having most likely 
torn off her false keel forward, and perhaps some 
of the coral rock which had held her. I was 
now all amaze ; I did not know what to do. 
The brig continued to drift in upon a point of 
rock, on which I expected to be dashed in 
pieces, but the current directed us past it to 
the southward, down towards the height which 
we had so attentively fixed our eyes on early in 
the morning. I was desirous to get the brig 
under some command ; and, finding the fore- 
staysail yet untorn, I got the weather sheet 
over, and was able to set the sail : the vessel's 
head now paid off, and she would steer ; I there- 
fore made up my mind to keep on as far as I 
could with safety, hoping to see some inlet. She 
went along cleverly, not being at all water-logged, 
and consequently in no danger of sinking ; hence 
on that score my great fear was removed. I soon 
approached the mountainous promontory, which 
seemed to stand up before us to obstruct our 
further progress : I therefore determined to 
bump her on shore ; and I ran for the beach 
close under the promontory. How great was 
my joy when I discovered an inlet, not twice 
the vessel's breadth. I pushed into it, and in 
a few minutes found myself at the end of a little 
cove. Here the brig struck, and stuck fast with 
her bow ; the shock threw myself and my wife 



216 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



forward with great violence ; and we were both 
more bruised by this happy event, than by all 
the tossings and tumblings we had experienced 
during the hurricane. 

We saw ourselves at length delivered from 
the perils of the ocean, and placed in a state of 
security : we raised our hearts to the fountain 
of mercy, and blessed God in thankfulness. We 
looked back upon the ocean, and the reef, and 
the rocky islands, from whose horrors we so lately 
escaped, with strong emotions still partaking of 
terror ; but it was not long before our self- 



I suppose I slept some hours : for when I awoke, 
I looked up, and saw my wife sitting by me, with 
Fidele at her side : she had been watching me in 
my sleep. Said she, "You have taken a sweet 
rest : how delightfully the breeze blows in upon 
us, through the cabin windows ! I should now 
be very comfortable, if we could find the boat 
with our companions." I arose, and set about 
hunting for some biscuit, and found the bag I 
had intended to throw into the long boat, hanging 
on a nail beliind the ladder ; and there I saw our 
two goats huddled together behind a hammock. 




* I IGNITED THE LEAVES." (Vmwn by If. H. Ovevend.) 



possession completely returned : we were in a 
snug place, and the sea all on this side of the 
reef, to far beyond us, perfectly smooth : we felt 
ourselves under God's protection, and were at 
ease. 

The poor dog was overjoyed by the first admis- 
sion of light, and by our presence, and seemed 
as if he would jump out of his skin. I soon 
succeeded in getting all the dead lights out ; we 
then saw tables, chairs, swinging lamp, chests, 
trunks, and many other things huddled together, 
and some smashed to pieces. 

We now felt our exhaustion, but I could not 
find any bread, nor, indeed, anything else, at 
the instant. Soon, however, I laid my hand on 
an unbroken bottle of wine jammed up in one 
of the berths, and we took a small quantity : then, 
reclining on the after-lockers, we both fell asleep. 



I brought the bag along with me, and we began 
to eat of it with thankfulness ; taking a little 
sup of the wine now and then from the bottle. 
I told Eliza I had seen the goats, and that they 
were alive. One of them, I was sorry to find, 
had its hinder leg broken ; but we could not at 
that instant attend to it ; for it occurred to me, 
that the bow of the vessel should be immediately 
secured to the rocks, as another hurricane might 
come, and blow us out of the creek. There was 
plenty of rope on deck, which I set about making 
fast round large blocks of cliS on our larboard 
bow ; then rested content, after three or four 
hours' great exertion, with what I had done. 

Meanwhile my wife had taken the dead fowls 
from the coop, and fed the remaining live ones. 
" One of the drowned fowls," observed I, " will 
be a good dinner for us, and we want it." — " I 



THE SHIPWRECK. 



217 



am not liiingiy," she replied ; " yet you must be 
so : but how can we make a fire'?" I bethought 
myself of the ship's spy-glass ; " This will do," 
said I ; " the great lens is a burning-glass ; I will 
step on shore with it, and kindle a fire." 

We put up our provisions, and with my wife 
and her faithful dog, both overjoyed, we once 
more trod the welcome earth again. We looked 
on the vessel with deep emotion, and on the 
strange land we were now for the first time 
treading together -the probable residence of our 
future life, whether long or short. We proceeded 
along the sand under the rocks, picking up some 
dry branches and dead leaves ; but being under 
the shadow of a high precipice, I carried some 
of my fuel to a place where the sun shone ; then 
unscrewing the top of the spy-glass, I ignited 
the leaves, and thus a fire was instantly kindled. 
My helpmate set to work plucking the fowls, 
while I removed the fire closer to the rock, into 
the shade. "We have no water," she said, 
" and I am indeed very thirsty." I therefore 
proposed to walk along under the rocks, and 
look for a spring. She did not like me to go 
■out of her sight, fearing I should be surprised 
by savages, who might be somewhere about. 
This idea had never yet crossed my mind ; but 
I confess it made me very uneasy. In conse- 
quence, we agreed to dress the fowls as fast as 
we could, and return on board to eat them. 
We then retraced our steps to the brig, fearing 
every moment to be surprised by the natives. 

To repel any attack from them I lost no time 
in getting down the thi'ee muskets which had 
hung securely in their fastening. I tried the 
flints, and loaded the muskets, and with this 
preparation for our defence, I was at present 
satisfied. 

We now set to work to put the wreck of 
furniture, and other things, in their places. 
Before evening the cabin looked much as it 
used to do : and the vessel being in a perfectly 
safe and quiet inlet, we felt much comfort in 
the possession of so desirable an asylum. 

We again went upon deck, to look around for 
the boat and our companions. To have a more 
extended view, I went up the fore-rigging, when 
I was enabled to see over the sandy beach, 
which seemed about half a mile broad ; and 
I WAS delighted to behold an extensive lake or 
harbour, surrounded by land, immediately on 
the further side. A confused idea crossed my 
mind, that we were somewhere ok. the Spanish 
Main ; and, on coming down, I told EKza what 
I thought. "WeU, bo it as it may," said she, 
"we have felt that God is gracious, and we will 
rest entirely upon his providence." I wished 
her to land again, saying, we would walk under 
the rocks to the further side of the isthmus. " I 
2 B* 



will do so, if you wish it," she rephed ; " but I 
think it were better to defer it until the morning ; 
and in the mean time we can do something for 
the poor goat that has broken its leg ; and make 
some other arrangements here ; " to which I 
instantly acquiesced. 

I got the poor goat upon deck, and bound up 
its broken leg ; then, bringing up the other, gave 
them half a dozen plantains, which they ate 
eagerly. All our vegetable stock, brought from 
Kingston, had been put into the steerage in 
hampers. Here were the sailors' berths, and 
chests, and a few yams and plantains, which 
they had provided to eat with their salt meat : 
they also kept a bag here for biscuits, and 
supplied it at their pleasure. On finding this 
new store, we gave the remainder in our bag to 
the few fowls and ducks that had survived the 
storm : their feathers were now dry, and they 
looked quite cheery. The sun being set, the 
evening came on apace ; we therefore retired 
to our cabin, closing the companion door after us. 

We lay down in peace and thankfulness to our 
heavenly Father for his providential care of us ; 
but our slumbers were disturbed by the noises 
of the preceding night yet ringing in our ears. 
We arose with the dawn, the cool freshness of 
which was truly delightful : a couple of oranges, 
with biscuit, was our breakfast : and, still finding 
water in the tea-kettle, we drank some of it, 
mixed with a little wine. " Now," said I, " will 
you venture on shore, and let us explore the 
other side of the isthmus 1 " — " Yes," she replied, 
"I will go cheerfully now." I took two of the 
muskets, and gave to her a boarding-pike to 
carry as a staff, and to have recourse to for 
defence, if necessary ; and, with our faithful 
little dog, we descended at one step from the 
brig's side to the rock. 

We thus proceeded to cross the isthmus, close 
under the precipitous promontory ; when, after 
walking about two hundred yards, we suddenly 
had a distinct view of the fine sheet of water 
beyond, with land on every side of it. The rocks 
were wooded high up, more or less, with palmettos 
and some other small trees. When we came 
within about two hundred yards of the beach, 
they terminated abruptly in a high front to the 
west ; opposite to which lay a low black rock, that 
stretched itself into the lake.- We looked round the 
face of the promontory, and had the inexpressible 
dehght to see at no great distance a spring of 
water gushing forth in an ample stream, clear as 
crystal. We thought of the Israelites in the 
desert, and we blessed their God and ours ; 
feeling that the gracious words of his mercy 
were literally verified unto us, giving us "rivers 
of water in a dry place, and the shadow of a great 
rock in a weary land." 



218 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



MRS. BEOWN ON THE ARMY. 



[By Arthur 

" ^^ EOWN," I says, " I'm a-goin' to a review ; 
Jj^^ tho'," I says, " wliat-ever is the use of 
'&~s' all them soldiers, I should like to know, 
'cept for the look of the thing, as certainly is im- 
posing, tho' red ain't a colour as suits me 1 " So 
Brown he says, "'' You don't know nothing about 
it, however should you 1 " 

I says, " Don't I ? Why," I says, " my dear 
mother washed two rigiments as was quartered 
near Honnslow." 

" Well, then," says Brown, " why ever do you go 
to see them ? " 

I says, " Do you think, Mr. Brown, as I'm goin' 
to allow a daughter of mine, tho' married, to go to 
sich a sight alone where a mother is a protection 1 
Not as I expects no enjoyment ; and as to her a- 
luggin' that boy all the way, it's madness down- 
right, that it is." 

" Why," says Brown, " she lives close by, so it 
ain't nothin' for her ; but as to your a-goin', it's 
foolishness." 

" Well," I says, " I never see such a man as you 
are. When I don't know things, full of your 
ridicule ; and when I wants to see them with my 
own eyes, always the one to hold back. But," I 
says, " go I do, thro' having promised Jane as I'd 
be there early to meet her at the Marble Arch, as 
the Edgware Road is a long distance." 

So I started with Brown, as see me into the 
Whitechapel Road, where the 'busses runs regular, 
and ketched the fust, as rattled that dreadful, thro' 
bein' empty, as seemed to jar my head to death. 

Not as I held with that conductor's remarks as 
hollared to the coachman when he helped in a 
party in widow's weeds as was certainly lusty, 
" Go on, Joe, here's more ballast," as is insults to 
a lady, as she certainly was, tho' she'd that hurried 
as I thought she never would get her breath again, 
and was obliged for to take her drops, as was in a 
little basket, as she said went agin her, tho' a great 
sufferer aperiently, as told me she was a-goin' to 
her daughter, as wouldn't be pacified till she got 
there, " Tho'," she says, " it's as much as my life's 
worth, thro' having done, as I seldom or never 
does, put my feet in hot water, with James' 
powders, as acts on the skin, a medicine as I don't 
hold with." 

So we was talking friendly, thro' her being one 
as was experienced, and like my own constitution, 
and known sorrers in having buried her good 
gentleman, as was in the white-lead line, a thing 
as is deleterious, and will lurk in the constitution, 
and brought on fits, thro' which he was took 
6udden ; not as he was one for to regret, for she told 



Sketchley.] 

as his habits was bad and temper violent, and she- 
says to me, " Forgive and forget, tho'," she says,. 
" I shall carry that man's marks to me grave ; " 
and was that pleasant company as I was sorry 
when she got out in Holborn, thro' her daughter 
a-livin' in Bloomsbury. 

I says, " Conductor," I says, a-hittin" him with 
my umbrella, '"' put me down at the Marble Arch, 
as is somewhere beyond Charing Cross." So he- 
says, " Whatever do you mean by stoppin' the- 
'bus for that ? " and bangs the door that violent, 
as set the horses off, and if they didn't gallop like 
mad, and frightened the horses in another 'bus, as- 
begun a-gallopin' too. A old gentleman in the 
'bus hollared at him, and says, " Let me out, I'm- 
not goin' to endanger my life." " Nor more ain't 
I," says I. 

" Come out then," says the conductor. " Where's- 
your money 1 " 

I gives him a shillin', and if he didn't give m& 
eightpence change in coppers, as I dropped in the 
middle of the road, where he left me a-standin', 
with cabs and 'busses all about a-shouting to me,, 
as was stoopin' to pick up the money, as I only re- 
covered three-halfpence, tho' I must say as many 
parties was very polite a-troubling themselves to- 
look for it ; not as I thought as kicking about the 
mud was a good plan, as all scuttled away pretty" 
quick, thro' a policeman a-comin' up as led me by- 
the arm on the pavement. 

So I says, " Is this the Marble Arch ? " 

" No," says he, " the Pantheon ; but," he says, "it 
ain't much further if you keeps on the shady side." 

Bless the man ! he's got nice ideas about far, he 
has, for it was nearly eleven when I got to the 
Marble Arch, where Jane was a-waitin' with her 
eldest, as isn't quite three, and the babby. 

She says, " Why, mother, how hot you look ;, 
you must want a something, mustn't she, Mrs. 
WooUey?" as was with her, a woman as I can't 
a-bear, bein' one as is all fair to your face and 
knives and lancets behind your back. 

So she says, " Mrs. Brown, do take a something, 
as is only across the road, as is easy to get at, thro' 
lamp-posts put up for to protect you agin them 
'busses as conies round you on all sides, let alone 
other public conveniences, as is bein' drove in 
ev'ry direction, and carri-ages by the million." 

If it hadn't been as I was that faint, thro' the day 
bein' that swelterin', I would not a-took nothin',. 
for I know'd that Mrs. WooUey's deceitful ways, 
as it was one word for me and half a dozen for 
herself, as know'd her tricks, thro' having watched 
her narrow when nursin' of Jane, as never held 



MRS. BROWN ON THE ARMY. 



219 



■with her ways with that child, and I'm sure could 
■sleep thio' its screams, a-sayin' as it was temper, 
■whereas I found the pin myself, as is a woman as 
would swear black is white, a-daring to say as it 
lad dropped ofif of me on to the infant. 

I'm sure I was that terrified a-gettin' across that 
road and back that what I did take didn't seem to 
■do me no good, and throwed me into that heat as 
I thought I never could have bore myself, tho' I 
had a musling gown with a barege shawl as was 
that flimsy as I didn't seem half-clothed, thro' it 
being what I calls a breezy day with dust in that 
park a-comin' up in clouds, and the sight of people 
es there wasn't no seeing thro'. 

Well, there was parties as had brought forms to 
stand on as would throw you over people's heads, 
tho' I was doubtful myself, for they was that 
rickety as I should not like to have trusted to ; 
but one young man he was a-tryin' it on, and says 
to me, " Here you, mum ! why, it's strong enough 
for a elephant," and idjots as was standin' by 
.grinned. So I walks on till we comes to a plank 
■as was supported on barrels, as the party as owned 
it jumped on for to prove it strong, and his good 
lady says as they wasn't in that line, but only come 
out for to see it theirselves, as is a field day well 
worth the money, as was threepence each, and 
agreed to hold Sammy up. 

Just then come a nice old gentleman as was 
■stout and cheerful, as says he'd try it, and up he 
gets, and advises me, as was hesitating, when them 
parties as it belonged to hoisted me up unawares. 

Certainly it was a grand sight to see them 
troops as moved like machines a-jumping up and 
turning round, as is their manoeuvring ways. So 
the people says, " Here's the Duke." I says, 
"'What Duke 1 Why," I says, " he's dead." " No," 
says the old gentleman as was standin' up by me. 
" Well," I says, " I see his funeral, that's all I know, 
and remember hearin' of the battle well, as there 
was a deal o' talking about when I was a very young 
gal, where his leg was shot off thro' Shaw the Life- 
guardsman, as was massacreed by the Prussians 
a-comin' up in the moment of victory." He 
says, a-laughin', "It's the Duke of Cambridge." 
I says, " Really. I've heard tell of Cambridge 
very often, but never heerd as it was a Duke." 
And if he didn't bust out laughing like mad. 

Well, the sun was a-beatin' down on my head, 
and I was lookin' at them soldiers, as must be 
•dreadful in battle. I says, " There ain't no fear of 



their firin' on us unprovoked, I suppose ; '" for I've 
heerd tell of such things, and spent balls ain't n j 
joke, as has been death to thousands, for I never 
shall forget our Joe a-ketching me accidental 
between the shoulders with a ball as he was 
playin' rounders with, so can easy fancy what lead 
must be. 

Well, Jane she'd got down, so had Mrs. WooUey, 
thro' the infant bein' fractious, and just then the 
soldiers let fly all of a sudden simultaneous with 
that banging and smoke in clouds as it give me 
that sudden start as I throwed back my arms 
violent with a scream as made every one look round, 
and I ketches that poor old gentleman as was next 
me sudden in the pit of his stomach accidental 
with my elber as made him start back that forcible 
as upset the plank as we was a-standin' on, and 
away I went backwards, and should have been 
killed if the old gentleman, being under me, hadn't 
broke my faU, as didn't take it in good part, tho' 
whatever parties could see to laugh at I can't think. 

I says, " Don't stand there a-grinnin', but lend 
me a hand up some on you," as they did at last, 
tho' the old gentleman was most hurt, not as he 
fell far, and said it was my weight as had nearly 
stifled him, as brought on words thro' Mrs. 
Woolley a-remarkin' as she should think so, as 
is a reg'lar mask of skin and bones. So I says, 
"It's luck as it wasn't you as fell on him, for 
you'd a cut him to bits like a iron hurdle." As 
I heard her with my own ears call me a " swel- 
terin' porpus." So I says, " Jane," I says, " if that 
female is a-goin' home with you, I knows myself 
too well for to put it in her power to insult me 
under my own daughter's roof." So I says, "I 
should prefer the omnibus, as will set me down 
within five minutes." So I says, " Let's part 
friends." So for all as she could say I would go, 
thro' her a-sayin' as she could shut her door agin 
that party as had walked in from Ealing, as I 
should not have wished, tho' in my opinion a low- 
lived woman, as I could tell through her conver- 
sations in that crowd as made a deal too free 
for me. 

As to them soldiers, it's all rubbish and waste of 
powder and ball, as wiU end bad some day thro' 
them firin' that promiscous at parties as is a- 
standiu' armless, tho' Brown will have it as it was 
only powder as they fired, tho' I knows better, for 
I could hear the baUs as must have knocked me 
over, and a mercy it was no wus. 



220 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 




[Fiom Little Doctor Faust 
Bv HFJ.RT J Byron ] 

jaj-.iLr you 11 -v^ ilk into mj iSlio\\, siis, 
iwn, ^'^® '^^ ^'-"^ °^ things J on know , sirs , 
I've a dappled droiaed art/ who can very 
nearly speak ; 
I've a brace of ring-tailed monkeys, 
Quite obedient as flunkeys ; 
I've an ostrich who can see into the middle of next 
week. 
I've a clever marmoset too, 
Who will tell you where you get to. 
With his eyes severely bandaged ; I've an educated 
flea ; 
I've a brace of learned ponies. 
And two cobras who are cronies, 
I've a camel with a weakness for a -n-inkle for his tea. 

We've a splendid aviary, 

With a " Polly " that's called " Mary," 
We've a pheasant most unpleasant, who vsill always 
disagree 

With the eldest of the chickens. 

Who quotes Thackeray and Dickens, 
We've a Cocker-too that counts so he'd give any 
Cocker three. 

We've a personal old vulture 

Who most grossly will insult yer, 



And a cassowary who's extremely vulgar Avhen he's 
vexed ; 
We've an elderly flamingo 
A^Tio remarks at times, " By Jingo ! " 
We've a peacock with a tale " to be concluded in 
our next." 

We've a very learned lizard. 
Who's as deep as any vidzard ; 
We've a cockroach who can whistle all the operatic 
airs ; 
"V\''e've a beetle who can caper. 
And a toad that reads the paper. 
And a saltatory oyster who skips up and down the 
stairs. 
We've a musical old mussel. 
Who can sing like Henry Russell ; 
We've a Cheshire feline specimen who 's always on 
the grin ; 
And a lunatic old locust, 
Who was very nearly hocussed 
By the artful armadillo who'd designs upon his 
tin. 



THE SHOWMAN'S SONG. 



221 



We've fossilised Igiianodons, 
And Ipecacuanhadons, 
And mummies who've been dimimies for these 
many thousand years. 
If up the stairs you '11 follow me, 
We 'II show you Eight " toll-ollemy ; " 
You pays your money and j'ou takes your choice, 
my little dears. 
There's no show in the fair at all, 
That with us can compare at all, 
We are bound to lick creation, though the simile 
is low — 
It expresses what we mean, sirs. 
That there never yet was seen, sirs. 
Such a scorching exhibition as this 'ere partic'ler 
Show. 

We've a pair of golden eagles. 
Who can both " give tongue " like beagles ; 
We've a wonderfully learned and intelligent old 
frog. 
Who's composed a five-act drama. 
Whilst a literary llama, 
With a long quill from the porcupine, knocked off 
the epilogue. 
We've a female boa constrictor, 
Who (untU you contradict her) 
Is as pleasant an old reptile as you'd ever wish to 
meet. 
We've an ocelot whose hobby 
Is to caU out, "Bobby, Bobby !" 
When he hears the midnight footfall of the Peeler 
on his beat. 

We've a terrapin who teaches, 
And a pelican who preaches. 
We've a friendly prairie buffalo who calls me an 
"OldHoss;" 
We've a clever anaconda. 
Who's been reading D. Deronda, 
Which he doesn't think as striking as the " MiU 
upon the Floss." 
We've a vocal she-hyasna, 
Sings like Patti (Adelina) ; 
We've a whelk who draws like Wilkie, we've a 
scientific stork, 
We've a beaver fond of Lever, 
And a versatile retriever. 
Who draws anything you tell him, from a covert to 
a cork 



We've a walrus good at waltzing. 
Seven sand-pipers who all sing. 
And a wombat who will argue with the elderly 
Nylghau ; 
We 've an elephant whose satire 
Causes one old water-rat ire. 
Which he shows by making faces at the motherly 
macaw. 
We've a pony (from Jerusalem), 
We christened him " Kafoozleum," 
A duck that 's always adding up his feathered 
brothers' bills ; 
We've a cat that 's cataleptic. 
And a badger who 's dyspeptic, 
And a highly nervous Cockle who is always 
taking pills. 

We've a marvellous gorilla, 
Who's designed a " moddern villa," 
And a turkey who " Bismillah " cries, whenever 
he's put out ; 
We've a venerable old ferret, 
AVho at med'cine shows such merit. 
He's consulted by the ostrich, who is threatened 
by the gou.t. 
We've a caligraphic camel, he 
Writes letters to his family. 
Though making quite a mystery of whom he sends 
them to. 
We've a frog (a rare old " soaker ") 
Who can criticise like Groker, 
And a 'coon who's cut his old friends and fore- 
gathered with the gim. 

We 've a classical young gander, 
Who indulges in Menander, 
And who finds for ignoramuses no possible 
excuse ; 
Greek and Hebrew, likewise Latin, 
He's phenomenally pat in. 
He's so wise we often fancy he must be a 
Solon-goose. 
We've a sensitive old bustard, 
"\ATio can't bear the sight of mustard, 
We've a quail who never flinches, and a tumbler 
that is cracked ; 
We've a whiting good at writing 
Novelettes that are exciting. 
And a Yankee duck who's waterproof because he's 
canvas-back'd. 



^^ 




222 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 




BROUGHT TO BAY. 



ERHAPS you 
may laugh, but, 
nevertheless, it is 
perfectly true ; 
and this is how 
it happened. 

As you may be 
quite sure, be- 
ing only nine- 
teen, I was most 
tremendously 
anxious to get my 
commission, and 
when at last I 
was gazetted to the 204th Foot, I did not give 
my tailor much rest till my uniform and the para- 
phernalia of my outfit were sent home. 

I dare say, to the old and sage, it is very 
ridiculous ; but to me it was glorious, that first 
putting on of military garments. The bedroom 
door was locked : I was quite alone. There was 
a tall cheval glass by the bed.side, and what was 
there to prevent me from strutting about, as 
scarlet in the face almost as my tightly-buttoned 
tunic ? It did not fit me perfectly, I knew ; but 
having it altered would necessitate its being taken 
away, and that idea was insiipportable. So I kept 
my things just as they were, and in the hot stage 
of scarlet fever in which I then was, the fact of 
my regiment being ordered out to China did not 
give me much uneasiness ; for even in a Chinese 
war there did not seem much cause for discomfort, 
since I believed that the British could chase the 
barbarians by the thousand. 

I will not trouble you with the account of our 
long journey out, and our landing in the Celestial 
Empire. Let it suffice when I teU you that upon 
our arrival it was to find hostilities in full progress, 
and, boy as I was, I had to take my turn with the 
rest, smelt powder, heard the whiz of bullets, and 
many a time saw my smart uniform soiled with 
mud and filth. 

It was hot work in both senses of the word. 
Now we were wading in a river-bed or creek, with 
the blazing sun above us, and the rank, steamy 
heat rising from the slime ; now we were storming 
a mud fort, or chasing the enemy over the swampy 
rice -fields or through cane-brakes ; while the 
next day, perhaps, we were accompanying some 
looting expedition. 

At last, after making pretty good progress up 
the country, we stormed a town, which I wUl call 
here Ling-Po. It had been a pretty tough job, for 
i;he mud walls had been held by a strong party of 



Braves. However, at last, the day was ours : the 
Braves were supposed to be driven out, and we 
had taken possession, the men distributing them- 
selves pretty well over the place, and I was along 
with half a dozen of the bandsmen, who were on 
their way to the place chosen for head-quarters, 
there to deposit their instruments previous to 
going upon ambulance duty : the helping of the 
wounded being, as perhaps you are aware, the 
duty of the bandsmen in time of war. 

We were rather indifferently armed, the bands- 
men having only those short, Roman-looking 
swords — very blunt ones, too — and though I had 
my sword and a revolver, I had received a nasty 
thrust through the right arm from the spear of a 
Brave — a hurt which necessitated the wounded 
Umb being carried in a sling, and made me feel 
more sick and faint than I cared to own amongst 
men who would have looked upon my injury as a 
mere scratch. 

The town was evidently a large, densely popu- 
lated place, full of crooked lanes, streets, and blind 
alleys, among which we kept wandering for cjuite 
an hour before we were compelled to own that we 
had lost our way. 

" If ye'll be kind enough to take the lade, Mr. 
Grey, we'll foUy ye," said one of the bandsmen, 
turning suddenly round upon me, and scratching 
his puzzled pate. 

" I'm ready enough to lead, Dennis," I said , 
" but I'm about done up for want of a little 
water to drink. I was thinking of asking you to 
carry me." 

" I'm thinking, sor, that we may just as well sit 
down in the shade and wait, for the head-quarters 
is jist as likely to come to uz, as we are to get to 
it. A big place like this would puzzle a map- 
maker." 

" I thought I'd tell you, sir, that there's a couple 
of Chinese been following us for the last five 
minutes," said another of the men, " and 'taint as 
if we had rifles." 

I looked uneasily back down the long, narrow, 
sun-glared street, but there was not a soul visible. 
All was still as death, save for a distant shot or 
two, which seemed to come from quite another 
part of the to^vn, and to indicate that the fighting 
was not entirely at an end. The houses on either 
hand were closely shuttered, and presented the 
most blank of aspects, and though we scanned the 
windows above, not a watching face was visible 
anywhere. 

I could not help owning that, should we be 
attacked by some detached body of the Braves, our 



BROUGHT TO BAY. 



223 



chances would be very small ; and I should have 
blamed myself for Want of care, had not the 
difficulty of finding one's way through such a 
wilderness become more and more evident at each 
stride we took. 

" It's my belafe, sor, that Corporal Smith's 
lading us intirely wrong," said the Irishman, 
speaking again. 

" Lead yourself, then," said the corporal, gruffly, as 
he tucked his large ophicleide beneath his arm, and 
paused awhile to wipe the perspiration from his 
forehead. 

" I tell you what, sir," said another man (our 
best cornet player), " we had better make a dash 
for it ; I don't like the look of this at aU. WiU 
yuu order a retreat 1 " 

" Why, what's wrong 1 " said I, testily, for all 
the time there was a dizzy sensation in my head, 
and the street looked misty before my eyes. 

" We are being dogged, sir, and no mistake ; 
and if we take refuge in one of these houses, we 
shall perhaps only be burned out." 

Trying to rouse myself, I hurriedly took a 
glance at our position. We were evidently in one 
of the lower parts of the town ; and the street 
wherein we were was one of the narrowest I 
had seen since in the country. Every here and 
there alleys ran off at right angles, but each 
apparently ended in a cul-de-sac, and to enter 
one of them might have been like running into 
a gin, from which there was no means of ex- 
tricating ourselves. To make matters worse, too, 
there was, at one end of the street, the gUnt of 
arms ; and a moment after, four or five Braves 
showed themselves for a minute, and then dis- 
appeared. 

Fortunately, the peril that threatened our 
little party seemed to clear my head from the 
misty sensation ; and I tried to devise some plan 
for immediate execution. 

" They will come upon us suddenly from one of 
the narrow streets, if they mean to attack us," I 
thought ; and, giving the signal to my men, I 
turned off sharply to the right, and we walked 
rapidly in a new direction, in the hope that it 
might bring us to where some of our own men 
were collected. 

That we were in danger I felt convinced. My 
men knew it, too ; but all the same, I could hear 
them joking together in a light-hearted, reckless 
fashion. 

" I tell you what," said one, " the band's as good 
as broken up, if we don't get back. What do you 
say, Dennis 1 " 

" Spoiled intirely," was the reply ; " and, bedad, 
I'm glad I haven't got to blow now, for I've no 
more wind left than would put out one of Widdy 
Flanaghan's dips, and they were twenty-four to 
the pound. How are you, corporal 1 " 



" Blown," was the gruff reply. 

Then we went on in silence for a short distance, 
but only to stop short as we turned a corner, for 
there was a burst of yells in the distance, and the 
clang of a gong, and we became aware of the fact 
that about thirty Braves were in close pursuit 
of a couple of our men, who were evidently hard 
pressed. 

" Come on ! " I shouted, with my blood seeming 
to boil ; but long before we could reach the spot 
we saw the two poor fellows overtaken by the 
Chinese soldiers, and fall pierced with a score of 
spear-wounds. 

" Come back, sir, qidck, come back ! " exclaimed 
a voice, and the sword-armed hand of the stout 
ophicleide-player was laid upon my arm. " It's 
like rushing on death, and — here, quick ! down 
here," he shouted, hurriedly ; " those fellows who 
have been dodging us are closing up." 

A glance revealed our position plainly enough : 
we were between two fires ; and, darting down 
a narrow lane close by, we hastily pursued its 
windings. 

" Our people must hear the noise soon, and clear 
the town," whispered the corporal to me, as he 
forced his arm vmder mine. " Hold up, sir, you're 
only a bit weak — that's the way. Now then, men, 
keep close together •, it's the only chance for our 
lives." 

The lane seemed as if it would have no end ; 
and all the time there were our enemies yelling 
and shouting m full pursuit. If we were over- 
taken, we knew what our fate must be — instant 
death, or else some horrible torture, for in their 
eyes we were so many foreign devils. 

I looked back twice, each time to see the iierce 
faces of the yelling mob panting in pursuit, and 
once I grew giddy with dread ; but I was pressing 
on the next moment, my heart leaping with joy as 
Corporal Smith exclauned — 

" Hold up, sir, we'll stand by you to a man • 
and, look ! there's the end of it at last." 

The end of the lane was indeed there ; but, to 
our horror, we saw that it was blocked up by the 
ruins of a couple of houses, evidently too near 
the wall, which had been knocked down by our 
boat-guns. 

" It's all up now, me boys," said the Irishman, 
with a howl; "but let's die game for the honour 
of the ould ridgment. I'll give 'em a call though, 
anyhow," he exclaimed, " it may bring help ; " and 
as we faced round, he put his cornet to his lips 
and blew a loud rallying call ; and there, in the 
face even of a horrible death, so great was the 
force of habit, that the other five bandsmen 
involuntarily raised their instruments to their 
hps. 

" Here, what a fool I am ! " roared Smith, lower- 
ing his huge bell-mouthed brass piece the next 



224 



GLEANINGS FEOM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



moment, for the Chinamen were within half a 
dozen yards, and rushing at us with lowered 
spears. " Quick, my boys ! a man apiece first. 
Fire, sir, fire ! " 

I had already taken aim at the nearest man 
with iny revolvei', and was in the act of drawing 
the trigger, when, as Smith lowered the great 
ophicleide, the foremost Braves saw its huge 
belching mouth directed full upon them, stopped 
short, yelKng now with horror — turned, and in a 
moment there was a regular stampede, the 
frightened wretches trampling over one another 
in their' hurry to escape from the murderous-look- 
ing instrument. 

" Bedad ! " shrieked Dennis, " they're afraid of 



ophicleide ; the trombone grunted, snorted, ani^ 
cut and slashed in all directions, high and low, 
sending forth volley after volley of minims and 
semibreves worthy of the pedal pijies of a large 
organ ; while the other instruments brayed, 
roared, howled, and made such discords as would 
have sent a professor mad. But it was not in 
vain, for this second discharge had the effect of 
sending the last tail flying round the corner, and 
then the place seemed once more to swmi round 
me, and I fainted. 

When I recovered it was to find that my 
men had carried me by some means over the 
ruins, and that a company of another regiment 
had just marched up. 




MOMENT THERE WAS A KEGULAR STAMPEDE. 



the wind instruments. Blow, me boys, blow ! 
Give 'em the big notes, corporal : let out at 
'em Tom, with the thrombone. Hurray, then ! 
Don't be afraid. Let go with the clarinet, Tim : 
that'll give 'em the toothache. Let out at 'em 
again. Arrah, if only Micky Blane was here wid 
the pipes ! " 

I have heard men when they have been learn- 
ing to play, and I have heard the practice in the 
band-room ; but never before, I am confident, did 
such a roaring bray issue from the mouths of 
instruments of brass as was now sent after the 
retreating and terrified Braves. 

" Fire again, me boys ! " shouted Dennis, as he 
saw in the distance some half-dozen men pause, as 
if to see how many had been slain by the fearful 
weapon that put them to flight. " A big one thi.s 
time, corporal ! " 

Phump ! — phump ! — phmiip ! — phump ! went the 



" Better, Grey 1 " said the captain, kindly. 
" They tell me you've had a narrow escape. I 
suppose there are hundreds of the enemy about yet. 
I say, there, where are you going, my man 1 It's 
not safe for you to get back there. Come dowij 
at once ! " 

"Iv you plase, sor, he's lift the great gun on 
the other side," said a voice ; and as I saw 
the grinning face of Dennis, I recalled the whole 
scene. 

" Back directly, sir. I've left my instrument 
on the other side," said Corporal Smith, with a 
smile. 

The captain nodded, and after a minute's climb- 
ing. Smith returned in triumph with the great 
brass piece, which became from that day a trophy 
in the regiment ; and, as I said at the beginning, 
you may laugh, but it is perfectly true ; and that 
was how it happened. 



HER LETTER. 



225 



HER LETTER. 



[By Bret Harte.] 



'M sitting alone by the fire, 

Dressed just as I came from the dance, 
In a robe even you would admire — 

It cost a cool thousand in France ; 
I'm be-diamonded out of all reason, 

My hair is done up in a cue : 
In short, sir, " the belle of the season " 

Is wasting an hour on you. 

A dozen engagements I've broken • 
I left in the midst of a set ; 



If you saw poor dear mamma contriving 
To look supernatural}}' grand — 

If you saw papa's picture, as taken 
By Brady, and tinted at that — 

You'd never suspect he sold bacon 
And flour at Poverty Flat. 

And yet, just this moment, when sittint; 

In the glare of the grand chandelier — 
In the bustle and glitter befitting 

The "finest soiree of the year," 




How I ONCE WENT DOWN THE MIDDLE." 



Likewise a proposal, half spoken. 
That waits — on the stairs — for me yet. 

They say he'll be rich — when he grows up- 
And then he adores me indeed. 

And you, sir, are turning your nose up. 
Three thousand miles off, as you read. 

'■ And how do I like my position ? " 

" And what do I think of New York 1 " 
" And now, in my higher ambition, 

With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk 1 " 
"And isn't it nice to have riches. 

And diamonds and silks and all that 1 " 
" And aren't it a change to the ditches 

And tunnels of Poverty Flat?" 

Well, yes— if you saw us out driving 
Each day in the park, four-in-hand— 
2 c 



In the mists of a gaze de Ghamhery, 
And the hum of the smallest of ta'k — 

Somehow, Joe, I thought of the " Ferry," 
And the dance that we had on " The Fork : 

Of Harrison's barn, with its muster 

Of flags festooned over the wall ; 
Of the candles that shed their soft lustre 

And tallow on head-dress and shawl ; 
Of the steps that we took to one fiddle ; - 

Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis ; 
And how I once went down the middle 

With the man that shot Sandy McGee ;. 

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping ; 

On the hill when the time came to go ; 
Or the few baby peaks tiiat were peeping 

From under their bedclothes of snow ; 



226 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



Of that ride — that to me was the rarest ; 

Of — the something you said at the gate ; 
Ah, Joe, then I wasn't an heiress 

To "the best paying lead in the State." 

Well, well, it's all past ; yet it's funny 

To think, as I stood in the glare 
Of fashion and beauty and money, 

That I should be thinking, right there 
Of some one who breasted high water, 

And swam the North Fork, and all that, 
Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter. 

The lily of Poverty Flat. 

But goodness ! what nonsense I'm writing ! 
(Mamma says my taste still is low) 



Instead of my triumphs reciting 
I'm spooning on Joseph — heigh-ho ! 

And I'm to be " finished " by travel — 
Whatever's the meaning of that — 

O, why did papa strike pay gravel 
In drifting on Poverty Flat 1 

Good night — here's the end of my paper ; 

Good night — if the longitude please — 
For maybe, while wasting my taper. 

Your sun's climbing over the trees. 
But know, if you haven't got riches, 

And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that. 
That my heart's somewhere there in 
ditches. 

Aid you've struck it — on Poverty Flat. 



the 




OTHELLO EJSr AMATEUR. 

[Prom " Harry Lorrequer." By Chakles Levee.] 



vj^UCH was our life in Cork : dining, 
*^ ' drinking, dancing, riding, steeple- 
chasing, pigeon-shooting, and tandem- 
driving filling up any little interval 

^^^ that was found to exist between a late 

fS^ breakfast and the time to dress for dinner. 
And here I hope I shall not be accused of 
a tendency to boasting, while I add that 
among all ranks and degrees of men, and women 
too, there never was a regiment more highly in 
estimation than the 4 — th. We felt the full value 
of all the attentions we were receiving, and we 
endeavoured, as best we might, to repay them. We 
got up Garrison Balls and Garrison Plays, and 
usually performed once or twice a week during the 
winter. Here I shone conspicuously. In the 
morning I was employed painting scenery and 
arranging the properties ; as it gTew later, I re- 
gulated the lamps and looked after the footlights, 
mediating occasionally between angry litigants, 
whose jealousies abound to the full as much in 
private theatricals as in the regidar cor2}s drama- 
tique. Then, I was also leader in the orchestra, 
and had scarcely given the last scrape in the over- 
ture before I was obliged to appear to speak the 
prologue. Such are the cares of greatness. To do 
myself justice, I did not dislike them ; though, to 
be sure, my taste for the drama did cost me a little 
dear, as will be seen in the sequel. 

We were then in the full career of popularity — 
our balls pronounced the very pleasantest, our 
plays far superior to any regular corps that had 
ever honoured Cork with their talents — when an 
event occurred which threw a gloom over all our 
proceedings, and finally put a stop to every project 



for amusement we had so completely given our- 
selves up to. This was no less than the removal of 
our Lieutenant-Colonel. His successor came under 
circumstances of no common difficulty amongst 
us ; but when I tell you that our new Lieutenant- 
Colonel was in every respect his opposite, it may 
be believed how little cordiality he met with. 

Lieutenant-Colonel Garden — for so I shall call 
him, although not his real name — had not been a 
month at quarters when he proved himself a 
regular martinet ; and we, who had fought our way 
from Albuera to Waterloo, under some of the 
severest generals of division, were pronounced a 
most disorderly and ill-disciplined regiment by a 
Colonel who had never seen a .shot fired but at a 
review at Hounslow, or at a sham-battle in the 
Fifteen Acres. The winter was now drawing to a 
close — already some little touch of spring was 
appearing — as our last play for the season was 
announced, and every effort to close with some 
little additional edaf was made ; and each per- 
former in the expected piece was nerving himself 
for an efi'ort beyond his wont. The Colonel had 
most unequivocally condemned these plays ; but 
that mattered not — they came not within his juris- 
diction — and we took no notice of his displeasure 
further than sending him tickets, which were as 
immediately returned as received. From being 
the chief oftender, I had become particularly 
obnoxious ; and he had upon more than one 
occasion expressed his desire for an opportunity 
to visit me with his vengeance ; but being aware 
of his kind intentions towards me, I took par- 
ticular care to let no such opportunity occur. 

On the morning in question, then, I had scarcely 



OTHELLO EN AMATEUR. 



227 



left my quarters when one of my brother officers 
informed me that the Colonel had made a great 
uproar, that one of the bills of the play had been 
put up on his door— which, with his avowed dis- 
like to such representations, he considered as in- 
tended to insult him ; he added, too, that the 
Colonel attributed it to me. In tliis, however, he 
was wrong — and, to this hour, I never knew who 
did it. I had little time, and still less inclination, 
to meditate upon the Colonel's wrath — the theatre 
had all my thoughts ! and indeed it was a day of 
no common exertion, for our amusements were to 
conclude with a grand supper on the stage, to 
which all the elite of Cork were invited. Wher- 
ever I went through the city — and many were my 
peregrinations — the great placard of the play 
stared me in the face ; and every gate and 
shuttered window in Cork proclaimed '' The part 
OF 'Othello' by Mr. Loreequee." 

As evening drew near, my cares and occupations 
were redoubled. My " lago " I had fears for — 'tis 
true he was an admirable " Lord Grizzle " in " Tom 
Thumb " — but then — then I had to paint the whole 
company, and bear all their abuse besides, for not 
making some of the most ill-looking wretches 
perfect Apollos ; but, last of all, I was sent for at 
a quarter to seven to lace " Desdemona's " stays. 
Start not, gentle reader, my fair " Desdemona " — 
she " who might lie by an emperor's side, and com- 
mand him tasks " — was no other than the senior 
Heiitenant of the regiment, and who was as great 
a votary of the jolly god as honest " Cassio " him- 
self. But I must hasten on ; I cannot delay to re- 
count our successes in detail. Let it suffice to say 
that, by universal consent, I was preferred to Kean ; 
and the only fault the most critical observer could 
find to the representative of " Desdemona," was a 
rather unladylike fondness for snuff. But whatever 
little demerits our acting might have displayed were 
speedily forgotten in a champagne supper. There I 
took the head of the table ; and, in the costume of 
the noble Moor, toasted, made speeches, returned 
thanks, and sang songs, till I might have exclaimed 
with Othello himself, " Chaos is come again ! " and 
I believe I owe my ever reaching the barracks 
that night to the kind offices of " Desdemona," 
who carried me the greater part of the way on her 
back. 

The first waking thoughts of him who has 
indulged over-night are not among the most 
blissful of existence, and certainly the pleasure 
is not increased by the consciousness that he is 
called on to the discharge of duties to which a 
fevered pulse and throbbing temples are but ill 
suited. My sleep was suddenly broken in upon 
the morning after the play by a " row-dow-dow " 
beat beneath my window. I jumped hastily from 
my bed and looked out, and there, to my horror, 
perceived the regiment under arms. It was one of 



our confounded Colonel's morning drills ; and there 
he stood himself, with the poor adjutant, who had 
been up all night, shivering beside him. Some two 
or three of the officers had descended ; and the 
drum was now summoning the others as it beat 
round the barrack- square. I saw there was not a 
moment to lose, and proceeded to dress with all 
despatch ; but, to my misery, I discovered every- 
where nothing but theatrical robes and decorations 
— there, lay a splendid turban ; here, a pair of 
buskins — a spangled jacket glittered on one table, 
and a jewelled scimitar on the other. At last I 
detected my "regimental small clothes," most 
ignominiously thrust into a corner in my ardour 
for my Moorish robes the preceding evening. 

I dressed myself with the speed of lightning ; 
but as I proceeded in my occupation, guess my 
annoyance to find that the toilet-table and glass, 
ay, and even the basin-stand, had been removed to 
the dressing-room of the theatre ; and my servant, 
I suppose, following his master's example, was too 
tipsy to remember to bring them back, so that I 
was unable to procure the luxury of cold water — 
for now not a moment more remained, the drum 
had ceased, and the men had all fallen in. Hastily 
drawing on my coat, I put on my shako, and 
buckling on my belt as dandy-Hke as might be, 
hurried down the stairs to the barrack-yard. By 
the time I got down, the men were all drawn up 
in line along the square, while the adjutant was 
proceeding to examine their accoutrements as he 
passed down. The Colonel and the officers were 
standing in a group, but not conversing. The 
anger of the commanding officer appeared still to 
continue, and there was a dead silence maintained 
on both sides. To reach the spot where they stood 
I had to pass along part of the line. In doing so, 
how shall I convey my amazement at the faces 
that met me % A general titter ran along the entire 
rank, which not even their fears for consequences 
seemed able to repress — for an eflort on the part 
of many to stifle the laugh only ended in a stiU 
louder burst of merriment. I looked to the far 
side of the yard for an explanation, but there was 
notliing there to account for it. I now crossed 
over to where the officers were standing, determined 
in my own mind to investigate the occurrence 
thoroughly, when free from the presence of the 
Colonel, to whom any representation of ill-conduct 
always brought a punishment far exceeding the 
merits of the case. 

Scarcely had I formed this resolve when I 
reached the group of officers ; but the moment I 
came near, one general roar of laughter saluted 
me, the like of which I never before heard. I 
looked down at my costume, expecting to discover 
that, in my hurry to dress, I had put on some of 
the garments of " Othello." No : all was perfectly 
correct. I waited for a moment till, the first 



228 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



burst of their merriment over, I should obtain a 
clue to the jest. But there seemed no prospect of 
this, for, as I stood patiently before them, their 

mirth appeared to increase. Indeed, poor G , 

the senior major, one of the gravest men in Europe, 
laughed tiU the tears ran do-\vn his cheeks ; and 
such was the effect upon me, that I was induced to 
laugh too. Just at this instant the Colonel, who 
had been examining some of the men, approached 
our group, advancing with an air of evident dis- 
pleasure, as the shouts of loud laughter continued. 
As he came up, I turned hastily round, and touch- 
ing my cap, wished him good morning. Never 
shall I forget the look he gave me. If a glance 
could have annihilated any man, his would have 
finished me. For a moment his face became purple 
with rage, his eye was almost hid beneath his bent 
brow, and he absolutely shook with passion. 

" Go, sir," said he at length, as soon as he was 
able to find utterance for his words — " Go, sir, to 
your quarters ; and before you leave them, a court- 
martial shall decide if such continued insult to 
your commanding ofSoer warrants your name being 
in the Army List." 

" What on earth can all this mean 1 " I said in a 
half- whisper, turning to the others. But there they 
stood, their handkerchiefs to their mouths, and 
evidently choking with suppressed laughter. 

" They're aU mad, every man of them," I 
muttered, as I betook myself slowly back to my 
rooms, amid the same evidences of mirth my first 
appearance had excited — which even the Colonel's 
presence, feared as he was, could not entirely 
subdue. 

With the air of a martyr I trod heavily up the 
stairs, and entered my quarters, meditating within 
myself a'wful schemes for vengeance on the now 
open tyranny of my Colonel ; upon whom I too, 
in my honest rectitude of heart, vowed to have a 
" court-martial. " I threw myself upon a chair, 
and endeavoured to recollect what circumstance of 
the past evening could have possibly suggested all 
the mirth in which both officers and men seemed 
to participate equally ; but nothing could I re- 
member capable of solving the mystery ; surely 
the cruel wrongs of the manly " Othello " were no 
. laughter-moving subject. 

I rang my bell hastily for my servant. The door 
opened. 

'■ Stubbes," said I, " are you aware ? " 

I had only got so far in my question when my 
servant put on a broad grin, and turned away to- 
wards the door to hide his face. 

" What does this mean ] " said I, stamping 
with passion ; " he is as bad as the rest. 
Stubbes " — and this I spoke with the most grave 
and severe tone — "what is the meaning of this 
insolence 1 " 

" Oh, sir," said the man — " Oh, sir, surely you 



did not appear on parade with that face '? " And 
then he burst into a fit of the most uncontrollable 
laughter. 

Like lightning a horrid doubt shot across my 
mind. I sprang over to the dressing-glass, which 
had been replaced, and oh ! horror of horrors ! 
there I stood as black as the King of Ashautee. 
The wretched dye which I had put on for 
"Othello," I had never washed off — and there, 
with a huge bearskin shako, and a pair of dark- 
bushy whiskers, shone my huge, black, and polished 
visage, glowering at itself in the looking-glass. 

My first impulse, after amazement had a little 
subsided, was to laugh immoderately ; in this I 
was joined by Stubbes, who, feeling that his mirth 
was participated in, gave full vent to his risibility. 
And, indeed, as I stood before the glass, grinning 
from ear to ear, I felt very little surprise that my 
joining in the laughter of my brother officers, a 
short time before, had cau,sed an increase of their 
merriment. I threw myself upon a sofa, and 
absolutely laughed till my sides ached, when, the 
door opening, the adjutant made his appearance. 
He looked for a moment at me, then at Stubbes, 
and then burst out himself, as loud as either of us. 
When he had at length recovered himself, he wiped 
his face with his handkerchief, and said, with a 
tone of much gravity — 

" But, my dear Lorrecjuer, this will be a serious 
affair. You know what kind of man Colonel 
Garden is ; and you are aware, too, you are not 
one of his prime favourites. He is firmly persuaded 
that you intended to insult him, and nothing will 
convince him to the contrary. We told him how 
it must have occurred, but he wUl listen to no 
explanation." 

I thought for one second before I replied. My 
mind, with the practised rapidity of an old cam- 
paigner, took in all the ]}ros and cons of the case ; 
I saw at a glance it were better to brave the anger 
of the Colonel, come in what shape it might, than 
be the laughing-stock of the mess for life, and with 
a face of the greatest gravity and self-possession, 
said — 

" Well, adjutant, the Colonel is right. It was no 
mistake ! You know I sent him tickets yesterday 
for the theatre. Well, he retiu'ned them ; this did 
not annoy me but on one account ; I had made ii 
wager with Alderman Gullable that the Colonel 
shoiild see me in " Othello." What was to be done 'I 
Don't you see, now, there was only one course. 
And I took it, old boy, and have won my bet ! " 

"And lost your commission for a dozen of 
champagne, I suppose," said the adjutant. 

" Never mind, my dear fellow," I replied ; " I 
shall get out of this scrape, as I have done many 
others." 

" But what do you intend doing 1 " 

" Oh, as to that," said I, " I shall, of course, wait 



OTHELLO EN AMATEUB. 



229 



-on the Colonel immediately, pretend to him that 
it was a mere blunder from the inattention of my 
servant — hand over Stubbes to the powers that 
punish " (here the poor fellow winced a little), 
""and make my peace as well as I can. But, 
adjutant, mind," said I, " and give the real version 
to all our fellows, and tell them to make it public 
as much as they please." 

" Never fear," said he, as he left the room still 
laughing, " they shall all know the true story ; but 
I wish with all my heart you were well out of it." 



' regiment, to get out of the continual jesting, 
and in less than a month we marched to Limerick, 
to relieve, as it was reported, the 9th, ordered 
for foreign service, but, in reality, only to 
relieve Lieutenant-Colonel Garden, quizzed beyond 
endurance. 

However, if the Colonel had seemed to forgive, 
he did not forget, for the very second week after 
our arrival in Limerick, I received one morning at 
my breakfast-table the following brief note from 
the adjutant : — 




Othello on Parade. {Draicn by W.Ra.Uton.) 



I now lost no time in making my toilet, and pre- 
sented myself at the Colonel's quarters. It is no 
pleasure for me to recount these passages in ray 
life, in which I have had to bear the " proud man's 
contumely." I shall therefore merely observe that, 
after a very long interview, the Colonel accepted 
my apologies, and we parted. 

Before a week elapsed, the story had gone far 
and near ; every dinner-table in Cork had laughed 
at it. As for me, I attained immortal honour for 
my tact and courage. Poor GuUable readily 
agreed to favour the story, and gave us a dinner 
as the lost wager ; and the Colonel was so 
unmercifully quizzed on the subject, and such very 
broad allusions to his being humbugged were 
,>.',iven in the Cork papers, that he was obliged 
tc negotiate a change of quarters with another 



" My dear Loerequer, — The Colonel has 
received orders to despatch two companies to 
some remote part of the county Clare, and as you 
have ' done the state some service,' you are selected 
for the beautiful town of Kilrush, where, to use 
the eulogistic language of the geography books, 
' there is a good harbour, and a market plentifully 
supplied with fish.' I have just heard of the kind 
intention in store for you, and lose no time in 
letting you know. 

" God give you a good deliverance from the 
' garqons hlancs,^ as the Moniteur calls the White- 
boys, and believe me ever yours, 

" Charles Cuezon." 

I had scarcely twice read over the adjutant's 
epistle when I received an official notification 



230 



GLEANINGS FEOM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



from the Colonel, directing me to proceed to 
Kilrush, then and there to afford all aid and 
assistance in suppressing illicit distillation, when 
called on for that purpose ; and other similar 
duties, too agreeable to recapitulate. Alas ! alas I 
" Othello's occupation " was indeed gone ! The 



next morning at sunrise saw me on my march, with 
what appearance of gaiety I could muster, but in 
reality very much chapfallen at my banishment, 
and invoking sundry things upon the devoted head, 
of the Colonel, which he would by no means con- 
sider as " blessings." 



BOYS WILL BE BOYS. 




GLORIOUS June day, and the earth 
bright in her new green mantle ; the 
soft genial showers which fell from 
time to time only seemed to add to its 
lustre. They left no spots upon its 
surface, but dashed off every speck of 
dust that wanton winds brought from 
out the lanes in clouds, and left on hedge, 
bank, and meadow. 

A bright, clear day ; the emerald fields glis- 
tening with the golden buttercups, and banks 
beauteous with the drooping oxlip and late dog 
violet. Gardens displaying their treasures, and 
nature in her wild garden trying, and not in vain, 
to compete for the prize of beauty ; for every bank 
and hedgeside teemed with the floral beauties we 
are so indifferent about, when, though minute, 
they are as lovely as those which deck our choicest 
beds. 

The old Hall, buried amongst the trees, now 
nearly in full leaf, save where at some bleak 
summit the foliage was thin and showed the dark 
nest of a pair of rooks. For the home of John 
Rouse seemed to be the centre of a chorus from 
the rookery above, where the sable-plumed and 
noisy vocalists were busy supplying the voracious 
demands of their callow broods. 

Summer everywhere, and the birds so occupied 
that, with the exception of the rooks, there was not a 
note to be heard. The finch in the pink-blossomed 
apple-tree sat close to its hatching mate, as still 
and serious as it was mute, and his example 
seemed to be followed throughout the garden. 

On the lawn, fronting the old red brick house, 
busy manufacturing a watch-spring gun, sat Fred 
and John Rouse, deep in conversation ; for, if 
possible, on Saturdays Fred always contrived to 
accompany John Rouse to his home. John's dog, 
Tinker— an ugly, rough terrier — lay lazily winking 
in the warm sun. 

"There," said John, at last, shutting up his 
knife, " that's a beaiity ! " and then he held up his 
watch-spring gun for Fred to admire. 

"So it ought to be," said Fred ; "why, it cost 
threepence. Wouldn't old Snarley kick up a row 
if I were to spend threepence in watch-spring and 
pen barrels." 

"Oh, he's an old bone -grinder," said John, 



making his gun click ; " every one says he puts 
bones in the flour." 

" No, he don't, now," said Fred ; " what's the 
good of talking such stuff ?^ust as if I didn't 
know. But I can tell you what he does do." 

"Well, what 1 " said John. 

" Oh, I sha'n't tell, you'd split," said Fred, in a 
mysterious tone. 

" No, I wouldn't. Do tell, there's a good chap,' 
said John. " Come now," he exclaimed, brighten- 
ing up, "jou tell me, and I'll lend you the new 
book ma bought for me in London. It's such a 
beauty — all blue and gold, and there's an out-and- 
out tale in it, about a boy. I haven't read it yet, 
but it looks such a beauty ; and I can read it 
when yo^^'ve done. Now, what does he do ? " 

" Well, then," said Fred, yielding to the tempta- 
tion, and most anxious to have the reading of 
such an "out-and-out" book — "well, then — you 
won't tell r' 

" No," said the other, repeating what was quite 
equal to the most solemn oath — "honour bright." 

"Well, then," said Fred, in a half-whisper, "he 
goes and — Who's that at the window 1 " he 
exclaimed, hurriedly. 

"Why, nobody," said John, "its only the white 
curtain fluttering about. Go on." 

" Well," said Fred, mysteriously, " he goes and 
fills his pockets out of the sacks which come to be 
ground." 

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed John; "shouldn't I 
like to shout at him when he's at it ! Wouldn't he- 
drop it again quickly ! Ma says that people who 
do wrong things always feel frightened." 

" Now tell me what the story's about," said the- 
other. 

" Oh," said John, " there's lots of stories in the 
book, and I only just peeped at them. One's 
about a midshipman climbing up the rigging of a 
ship until he stands right on top of the mast, and 
then he can't get down again. And then his- 
father comes on deck, and says he'll shoot him if 
he don't jump right overboard. And so, as he 
couldn't get down any other way, he jumps right 
off the top of the mast into the sea, and then some 
of the sailors jump overboard after him, and bring 
him on deck. There, that's all I know about it, sa 
don't bother any more." 



BOYS WILL BE BOYS. 



231 



" Well, but that's an old tale," said Fred. " I 
Tead that ever so long ago ; and I don't believe it. 
Why couldn't he come down the same way as he 
4'ot npl" 

" Why, because he was standing right up," said 
John, "and there was nothing to catch hold of." 

" Oh, nonsense ! " said Fred ; " why didn't he 
stoop down, and get hold of the top vnth his 
hands ? I know I could have got down easy enough 
if I had been there." 

"Oh, ah," said John, tauntingly; "just as if you 
could climb at all." 

" Climb better than you," said Fred, shortly. 

" No, you can't," said John. 

"Yes, I can," said Fred. 

" Why, you couldn't climb the elm and take the 
mag's nest," said John. 

" Yes, I could, if I liked," said Fred ; " but I 
ain't going to." 

" Ha ! ha ! ha ! " laughed John. "I knew you 
couldn't. You're afraid." 

" No, I'm not," said Fred. 

" Yes, you are," said John. " Bet you a penny 
you are." 

" No, I sha'n't bet," said Fred ; " but I could 
climb the tree, and I'm not afraid." 

"There's a coward," said John, tauntingly. 
" Who's a brag now 1 " 

"I'm not," said Fred, sturdily, "and I'll soon 
show you. Only, mind, I shall keep aU the 
mags." 

"Ah," said John, with a grin on his face ; " but 
you won't get any." 

Unfortunately the boys' conversation was not 
heard by any one but the children, and they were 
too intent on their daisy chains to take any notice ; 
so off went the lads to the home-field, closely 
followed by Tinker, who sent all his floral decora- 
tions flying at the first bound he made— and he 
made plenty of leaps and rushes — till they stood 
where a large elm grew alone, towering to a great 
height, and in the midst of whose crown of golden 
green leaflets could be seen a dark cluster of twigs, 
evidently the nest of a pair of magpies, and at 
first sight apparently inaccessible. 

"There," said John, when they had reached the 
tree, and evidently wishing that his companion 
would not make the dangerous attempt. " There, 
you know you can't do it, so let's go back." 

" Can't I ! " said Fred. " Wait a bit, and you'll 
see." 

And as his friend glanced at him, he could see 
that the lad's teeth were set firm, and that there 
was the same look of obstinate determination that 
appeared on his face on the day of their first fight, 
now a year before ; and this was a look which 
seemed to augur success. 

He took off his jacket and boots, and then, 
soliciting a lift-up, he got hold of one of the 



lowest boughs, where it drooped towards the earth, 
and then climbed along it till he reached the trunk, 
where he stopped to rest, sitting cross-legged upon 
the horizontal limb he had just attacked. 

It was no easy task that Fred Lister had cut out 
for himself, for it was one that would have cowed 
many a stouter heart. The old giant was of the 
most rugged kind, and the branches which pro- 
jected from the parent trunk were large and at 
considerable distances apart. However, the lad 
knew well the difflculty of his task, and like a 
wary general he sat watching for the weakest 
point of the tower he was about to scale, and 
recruiting his forces for the hard battle before 
liim. 

A jeering laugh from the boy below, and a short, 
quick bark of excitement from the dog, roused the 
climber, and with one more glance upward he set 
to work, straining, crawling, climbing, and drawing 
himself up foot by foot, until he had reached the 
great fork of the tree, where the parent trunk 
separated into five great boughs, each of which, 
however, formed a great tree of itself ; and here 
again, fifty feet above the ground, Fred paused to 
have another rest. 

Well breathed, he started again ; and here it 
was that the difficulties of the ascent began. The 
twigs, small boughs, and excrescences of the great 
trunk wei-e at an end, and there was hardly any- 
thing else now but sheer climbing, with but little 
hold for the climber's feet. Far up among the 
thin branches, hidden amidst the leafy covers 
which surrounded it, hung the magpie's nest ; and 
after climbing a short distance Frank found that 
his goal was in the top of the principal bough, and 
that he must descend a little way again, for he was 
on the wrong one ; and he could see, too, now, that 
this bough towered far above the others. And 
now, seeing that a dangerous enemy had set 
himself to scale the fortress, the hen magpie 
darted down from her lofty seat, giving utterance 
to a shriU cry, and leaving her brood to the chances 
of the day. 

Fred descended again to the fork, and then up 
and up he went, slowly and painfully. His hands 
were bleeding and the skin was off his legs, but he 
felt that if he stopped now it would be his honour 
that would bleed, which would be far woi'se, and 
not for worlds would he have given up. Anon he 
paused again ; for a shout from John arrested him, 
and then followed a cry to come down. 

" Don't go any highei', Fred — you'll fall." 

"No, I won't," shouted Fred, sturdily ; though 
in his own mind he did not feel very sure about 
it. 

But he knew how unmercifully he would be 
bantered if he gave up ; so he toiled, panting, hot, 
and tired, but achieving difiiculty after difficulty, 
and only once summoning courage enough to look 



232 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



down, wlien he shuddered and quickly raised his 
eyes again, for a strange, creeping sensation came 
over him, and the bough he was on seemed to rock 
fearfully, although it was only the steady swaying 
of the tree in the gentle summer breeze. 

Higher and higher, till an opening in the boughs 
showed him the winding river, the mill, and, far 
off, the spire of Dunton Church, up which he had 
once been ; and he recalled the sensation he had 
felt upon that occasion ' as being similar to the 
tremor which now came over him. 

Higher still, and higher, and a horrible slip — a 
catching of the breath, and a hanging suspended 
by the hands ninety feet above the earth. A sharp 
struggle, and the lost place regained. Five 
minutes' rest, and, with renewed courage, again 
higher and higher — the tree swaying more and 
more, and the breeze feeling brisker, the branches 
growing thinner and thinner ; and at last the 
climber stopping to hesitate and think whether he 
shall attempt to ascend farther ; but, testing each 
bough before trusting it with his weight, he still 
mounts boldly, and creeps, and draws himself up. 



gazing with a half-shuddering pleasure at the 
beautiful scene around. 

Higher still, and higher ; and now the eminence 
is gained, while the bough sways and bends 
terribly as he stands in the fork just below the 
great, bushy, arched nest, and waves one hand 
while he clings for dear life with the other ; for he 
is too breathless to cheer. 

A loud hurrah from John — a shout of genuine 
pleasure — and another bark from Tinker, saluted 
Fred by way of response to his waving hand ; and 
now he set about the rather difficult task of se- 
curing the spoil : no easy matter, when it is taken 
into consideration that a magpie's nest is a mass 
of thorny twigs about a yard in diameter, and the 
interior only to be reached from one side. How- 
ever, with legs tightly clasping the bough he was- 
on, Fred thrust his bleeding hands into the nest, 
and seized two of the strong and well-fledged birds,, 
who resented the intrusion by digging their beaks 
well into the flesh of their captor. The other 
three — for there were five birds — took advantage 
of the struggle that was going on to escape from 
their aerial cradle and descend, fluttering, through 
the branches — two to kill themselves in the fall,, 
and the other to be captured by Tinker. 
~ Fred secured his prizes as well as he could by 
tying their legs together with his top-string — rather 
an arduous task in his position ; and then, after a 
rest, he prepared to descend. This, however, 
proved, if anything, a nioie difficult tisk than the 
ascent, fui the boy was tired, and his hands and 
legs bOie Moie than once his heait failed him ;, 
but the thought"? of the victoiy he had achieved 
kept back the flutteimg of his heart, foi he was 
growing miseiable and weak with his exertions; 
his hands, too, bled a good deal , and when he 
made the Jip m ascending the tree, he had 
strained one of his shoulders 

At length, aftei a good deal of sliding and 
SLi ambling, lu \\hich his clothes suifeied teiribly,. 




BOYS WILL BE BOYS. 



233 




Fred was half-way down ; and then, in obedience 
to a shout from John, he relieved himself of the 
birds he had suspended to his brace, by throwing 
them down. 

But the venturesome boy was not destined to 
reach the ground in safety. He liad still a con- 
siderable distance to descend, when he unfortu- 
nately trusted his whole weight to a rotten branch. 
There was a sharp crack, a simultaneous cry from 
both lads, and then a heavj', rushing sound, as, 
falling from branch to branch, Fred lay at length, 
.stunned and motionless, at his companion's feet. 

John Rouse and Tinker both set to work 
directly to render all the aid in their power. 
•John's first act was to take his friend by the 
shoidders and shake him to make him speak, and 
it is almost needless to say that the remedy was not 
productive of satisfactory results ; while Tinker, 
as if to help his master, seized hold of the leg of 
the fallen lad's trousers, and shook it rat fashion, 
until he had doubled the size of one of the rents. 
Finding, however, that the treatment administered 
was of no service, John ran off towards the Hall, 
shouting for help as he went, and bringing the 
Squire out, pipe in hand, while a bright brown 
and yellow silk handkerchief still fluttered about 
his head, where it had been placed for a fly-guard 
during the afternoon's snooze. 

"Oh, papa, father!" shouted John. Oh, dear! 
Fred's killed. I know he is ! What shall I do 1 
He has tumbled out of the tree where the mag's 
nest is." 

" And what business had you to — ! But, hi ! — 
here, Sam, Tom ! " shouted the Squire. 

And off he trotted, followed by a couple of men, 
to where poor Fred was lying insensible at the foot 
of the tree. 

They carried him up to the house, and laid him 
2d 



pack of 
sendinff 



tenderly on the sofa ; 

the Squire all the while 

puffing -with his exertions, 

and muttering and grumbling about a 

young scamps, but losing no time 

off one of the men for the doctor ; while Mrs. 

Rouse's time was taken up between pacifying 

the youngsters and trying to revive the in.sensible 

boy. 

"Oh, I know he's dead," ■whimpered .John ; 
" and it's all my faidt, for I dared him to go up. 
And—" 

" You dog," roared his father, " how dared you i' 
Why didn't you go up yourself, eh ? Why didn'( 
you 1 " 

" Had we not better send for poor Mrs. Graves? " 
said Mrs. Rouse. 

" Certainly not ! " said the squire. "What is the 
good of horrifying the poor woman if we can pre- 
vent it ? " 

Mrs. Rouse remained silent, and directly after 
came the doctor, and soon relieved the family from 
aU fears of fatal consequences. Still, the fall had 
been sirfficiently serious ; for, in addition to the 
severe bruises the boy had received, the poor 
fellow's arm was broken. But the doctor set to 
work in a business-like style, completed his first 
inspection, .set the arm; and soon 'after Fred was 
lying upon his friend's bed, bandaged and faint, 
but perfectly sensible. 

As soon as the doctor had left the room, the lad 
asked the Squire to let John come to him ; and 
Mrs. Rouse went out on the tips of her toes to 
fetch the boy herself. She soon returned with her 
son, whose eyes looked qvute red and puffy with 
crying, and who began to sob afresh as soon as he 
saw his schooKellow's pale face and bandaged arm. 
He went to the bed and leaned over the sufferer. 



234: 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



while Mr. and Mrs. Rouse stood aloof to watch 
what would take place. But no sooner did the 
Squire hear the few words which fell from the lips 
of the cripple than — 

" Bother the boy ! " he muttered, " worrying me 
to death in this way. Come down, mother; there's 
nothing the matter. He'll be out again to- 
morrow." 

Mrs. Rouse .smiled, and followed her lord ; for 
to a certain extent, she could not but endorse the 



opinion he had expressed, especially after hearing 
Fred's query. For on John going up to his school- 
fellow, Fred had forgotten all his pains. There 
was no tender and affecting interview to take 
place, and no occasion for Mrs. Rouse, nor yet the 
Squire, to have walked, with a difficulty of pre- 
serving equilibrium, on the points of their toes ; 
for said Fred, trying to grin with his swelled and 
puffed face — 
" Jack, where's the mags 1 " 



FOUR LONDON LTEICS. 

[By Predehick Lockee.J 

MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS. 

She has dancing eyes atid ruhy lips, 
Delightful boots — and ajuai; she sfctps 



fv HEY nearly strike me dumb,- 
h I tremble when they come 
■^^ Fit-a-pat : 

This palpitation means 
These Boots are Geraldine's^ 
Think of that ! 

O, where did hunter win 
So delicate a skin 

For her feet] 
You lucky little kid, 
You perisli'd, so you did, 

For my vSweet. 

The faery stitching gleams 
On the sides and in the seams, 

And reveals 
The Pixies wei-e the wags 
Who tipt these funny tags. 

And these heels. 

What soles to charm an elf ! 
Had Crusoe, sick of self. 

Chanced to view 
One printed near the tide, 
O, how hard he would have tried 

For the two ! 



For Gerrj's debonair, 
And innocent and fair 

As a rose ; 
She has ilouncing little frocks. 
And cunning little clocks 

To her hose. 

The simpletons who squeeze 
Their pretty toes to please 

Mandarins, 
Would positively flinch 
From venturing to pinch 

Geraldine's. 

Cinderella's lefts and rights 
To Geraldine's were frights: 

And I trow 
The Damsel, deftly shod, 
Has dutifully trod 

Until now. 

Come, Gerry, since it suits 
Such a pretty Puss (in Boots) 

These to don. 
Set this dainty hand awhile 
On my shoulder. Dear, and I'll 

Put them on. 



MRS. SMITH. 



Hdghj-lio ! they're wed. The^cards ari dealtf 

Our frolic games are o'er; 
I've lauglied, andfool'd^ and loved, Vvefeli 

As 1 shall feel no more ! 

Last year I trod these fields with Di, 
Fields fresh with clover and with rye ; 

They now seem arid : 
Then Di, was fair and single ; how 
Unfaii- it seems on me, for now 

Di's fair — and married ! 



Ton little thatch is where she livcs^ 

Yon spire is where she met me ; 
I think that if she quite forgives. 

She ca/imot quite forget me. 

A blissful swain — I scorn'd the song 
Which tells us though young Love is strong, 

The Fates are stronger ; 
Then breezes blew a boon to men, 
The buttercups were bright, and then 

This grass was longer. 



FOUR LONDON LYRICS. 235 


That day I saw and much esteem'd 
Di's ankles, that the clover seem'd 

IncHned to smother : 
It twitch'd and soon untied (for fun) 
The ribbon of her shoes, first one, 

And then the other. 


For answer I was fain to sink 

To what we all would say and think 

Were beauty present : 
" Don't mention such a simple act — 
A trouble 1 not in the least ! In fact 

It's rather pleasant ! " 


I'm told that Virgins augur some 
Misfortune if their shoe-strings come 

To grief on Friday : 
And so did Di, and then her pride 
Decreed that shoe-strings so untied 

Are " so untidy ! " 


I trust that Love will never tease 
Poor little Di, or prove that he's 

A graceless rover. 
She's happy now as Mrs. Smith— 
And less polite when walking with 

Her chosen lover. 


Of course I knelt ; with fingers deft 
I tied the right, and tied the left : 

Says Di, " This stubble 
Is very stupid ! — as I live 
I'm quite ashamed ! . . . I'm shock'd to give 

You so much trouble ! " 


Heigh ho ! Although no moral clings 
To Di's blue eyes, and sandal strings. 

We've had our quarrels. 
I think that Smith is thought an ass, — 
I know that when they walk in grass 

She wears halmorals. 



THE HOUSEMAID. 

Thi yiOOY cam love through toil and imin^ Tliey feel as mwcTi, ojnd do far more 



AlthoiLgh tlieir hoinely speech is fain 
To halt in fetters : 

Wistful she sits — and yet resign'd 
She watches by the Tsdndow-blind : 

Poor Girl. No doubt 
The passers-by despise thy lot : 
Thou canst not stir, because 'tis not 

Thy Sunday out. 

To play a game of hide and seek 
With dust and cobweb all the week 

Small pleasure yields : 
Oh dear, how nice it were to drop 
One's pen and ink — one's pail and mop ; 

And scorn* the fields. 

Poor Bodies few such pleasures know ; 
Seldom they come. How soon they go ! 

But Souls can roam ; 
For lapt in visions airy-sweet, 
She sees in this unlovely street 

Her far-off home. 

The street is now no street ! She pranks 
A purling brook with thymy banks. 
In Fancy's realm 



Than some of fTtem they 6010 I 
MiscalVd their betters. 

Yon post supports no lamp, aloof 
It spreads above her parents' roof, — 
A gracious ehn. 

A father's aid, a mother's care, 
And life for her was happy there : 

But here, in thrall 
She sits, and dreams, and fondly dreams, 
And fondly smiles on one who seems 

More dear than aU. 

Her dwelling-place I can't disclose ! 
Suppose her fair, her name suppose 

Is Car, or Kitty ; 
She may be Jane — she might be plain — 
For must the Subject of my strain 

Be always pretty % 

But if her thought on wooing run 
And if her Sunday-Swain is one 

Who's fond of strolling. 
She'd like my nonsense less than his, 
And so it's better as it is — 

And that's consoling. 



THE CROSSING-SWEEPER. 



AZLA AND EMMA. 



A orossing-siceeper, Wack and tan. 
Tells how he came from HiTidoston, 

My Wife was fair, she worsMpp'd me, 

Her father was a Caradee, 

His Deity was aquatile, 

A rough and tough old CrocodUe. 



And why he wears a hat, and shunn'd 
The H/yals of the Pugree Band. 

To gratify this Monster's maw 

He sacrificed his Sons-in-law ; 

We'd wed — my tender Bride confessmg 

To Husbands five already — missing ! 



236 



GLEANINGS PROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



Her Father, when lie play'd his pranks, 
Proposed " a turn on Jumna's banks ; " 
He spoke so kind, she seem'd so glum, 
I knew at once when mine had come. 

I fled before his artful ruse 
To cook my too-confiding goose. 
And now I sweep, in chill despair, 
A Crossing by St. James's Square ; 

Some old Qid-hij, or rural flat 
May drop a sixpence in my hat ; 
Yet still I mourn the Mango-tree 
Where Azla first grew fond of me. 

The.se rogues who swear my skin is tawny 
Would pawn their own for brandy -pawny ; 
What matter if their skins are snowy, 
As Chloe fair ! They're drunk as Chloe ! 

Your Town is vile. On Thames's stream 
The Crocodiles get up the steam ! 



Your Juggernauts their victims bump 
From Camlserwell to Aldgate pump ! 

A year ago, come Candlemas, 
I woo'd a plump Feringhee lass ; 
United at her idol fane, 
I furnishd rooms in Idol Lane. 

A moon had waned when virtuous Eunua 
Involved me in a new dilemma : 
The Brahma faith that Emma scorns 
Impaled me tight on both its hoi-ns : 

SMd voted to BURN if she survived mc ; 
Of this sweet fancy she's deprived me. 
She's run from all her obligations. 
And gone to stay with her Relations. 

My Azla weeps by .Jumna's deeps, 

But Emma mocks my trials. 
She pokes her jokes in Seven Oaks 

At me in Seven Dials, — 
I'm dash'd if these Feringhee Folks 

7\.int rather worse than Eyals. 




THE STOET OF LE FEVEE, 

[From " Tristram Shandy." By Latjeence Steene.] 



Y uncle Toby was one evening sitting 
at supper, when the landlord of a 
little inn in the village came into 
'{^^ the parlour with an empty phial in 
his hand, to beg a glass or two of 
" 'Tis for a poor gentleman, I think 
of the army," said the landlord, " who has 
been taken ill at my house four days ago, 
and has never held up his head since, or had a 
desire to taste anything till just now, that he has 
a fancy for a glass of sack and a thin toast ; ' I 
think,' says he, taking his hand from his fore- 
head, ' it would comfort me.' If I could neither 
beg, borrow, nor buy such a thing," added the 
landlord, " I would almost steal it for the poor 
gentleman, he is so ill. I hope in God he will still 
mend," continued he ; " we are all of us concerned 
for him." 

" Thou art a good-natured soul, I will answer 
for thee," cried my uncle Toby ; " and thou shalt 
drink the poor gentleman's health in a glass of 
sack thyself ; and take a couple of bottles with 
my service, and tell him he is heartily welcome 
to them, and to a dozen more, if they will do him 
good." 

" Though I am persuaded, ' said my uncle Toby, 
as the landlord shut the door, "he is a very com- 
passionate fellow, Trim, yet I cannot help enter- 
taining a high opinion of his guest too ; there must 
be something more than common in him that in 



so short a time he should win so much upon the 
afi'ections of his host." 

" And of his whole family," added the corporal ; 
" for they are all concerned for him." 

" Step after him," said my uncle Toby, " do. 
Trim, and ask if he knows his name." 

" I have quite forgot it, truly," said the landlord, 
coming back into the parlour with the corporal ; 
" but I can ask his son again." 

" He has a son with him, then ?" said my uncle 
Toby. 

" A boy," replied the landlord, " of about eleven 
or twelve years of age ; but the poor creature has 
tasted almost as little as his father ; he does no- 
thing but mourn and lament for him night and 
day. He has not stirred from the bedside these 
two days." 

My uncle Toby laid down his knife and fork, and 
thrust his plate from before him, as the landlord 
gave him the account ; and Trim, without being 
ordered, took it away, without saying one word, 
and in a few minutes after, brought him his pipe 
and tobacco. 

" Stay in the room a little," said my uncle Toby. 
" Trim," said my uncle Toby, after he had lighted 
his pipe, and sanoked about a dozen whifFs. Trim 
came in fi'ont of his master, and made his bow. 
My rmcle Toby proceeded no farther, but finished 
his pipe. " Trim," said my uncle Toby, " I have a 
project in my head, as it is a bad night, of wrap- 



THE STORY OF LE FEVRE. 



237 



ping myself up warm in my ro(inelaure, and paying 
■a, visit to this poor gentleman." 

" Your honour's roquelaure," replied the corporal, 
■" has not once been had on since the night before 
your honour received your wound, when we 
mounted guard in the trenches before the gate 
•of St. Nicholas. And besides, it is so cold and 
Tainy a night, that what with the roquelaure, and 



and I will bring your honour a full account in an 
hour." 

" Thou shalt go, Trim," said my uncle Toby ; 
" and here's a shilling for thee to drink with his 
servant." 

" I shall get it all out of him," said the coi'poral, 
shutting the door. 




'He shall march/ cried my uncle toby.' 



-what with the weather, 'twill be enough to give 
your honour your death, and bring on your 
.honour's torment in your groin." 

" I fear so," replied my uncle Toby ; " but I am 
not at rest in my mind, Trim, since the account 
the landlord has given me. I wish I had not 
known so much of this affair," added my uncle 
Toby, "or that I had known more of it. How 
-shall we manage it"?" 

" Leave it, an't please your honour, to me," quoth 
the corporal ; " I'll take my hat and stick, and go 
to the house, and reconnoitre, and act accordingly ; 



It was not till my uncle Toby had knocked the 
ashes out of his third pipe, that Corporal Trim 
returned from the inn, and gave him the following 
account : 

"I despaired at first," said the corporal, "of 
being able to bring back your honour any kind of 
intelligence concerning the poor sick lieutenant." 

" Is he in the army then V said my uncle Toby. 

" He is,' said the corporal. 

" And in what regiment ? " said my uncle Toby. 

" I'll tell your honour," replied the corporal 
" everything straightforwards as I learned it." 



238 



GLEANINGS FROM. POPULAR AUTHOEiS. 



" Then, Trim, I'll fill another pipe," said my uncle 
Toby, " and not interrupt tliee till thou hast done ; 
so sit down at thine ease. Trim, in the window-seat, 
and begin thy story again." 

The corporal made his old bow, which generally 
spoke as plain as a bow could speak it — " Your 
■ honour is good." And having done that, he sat 
down, as he was ordered, and began the story to 
my uncle Toby over again in pretty near the same 
words I 

" I despaired at first," said the corporal, " of 
being able to bring back any intelligence to your 
honour about the lieutenant and his son ; for when 
I asked where his servant was, from whom I made 
myself sure of knowing everything which was 
proper to be asked " 

" That's a right distinction. Trim," said my uncle 
Toby. 

" I was answered, an't please your honour, that 
he had no servant with him ; that he had come to 
the inn with hired horses, which, upon finding 
himself unable to proceed (to join, I suppose, the 
regiment), he had dismissed the morning after he 
came. ' If I get better, my dear,' said he, as he 
gave his purse to his son to pay the man, ' we can 
hire horses from hence.' ' But, alas ! the poor 
gentleman will never get from hence,' said the 
landlady to me ; ' for I heard the death-watch all 
night long ; and when he dies, the youth, his son, 
will certainly die with him ; for he is broken- 
hearted already.' 

"I was hearing this account," continued the 
corporal, " when the youth came into the kitchen, 
to order the thin toast the landlord spoke of. ' But 
I wiU do it for my father myself,' said the youth. 
' Pray let me save you the trouble, young gentle- 
man,' said I, taking up a fork for the purpose, and 
offering him my chair to sit down upon by the fire 
whilst I did it. 'I believe, sir,' said he, very 
modestly, 'I can please him best myself.' 'I am 
sure,' said I, ' his honour will not like the toast the 
worse for being toasted by an old soldier.' The 
youth took hold of my hand, and instantly burst 
into tears." 

"Poor youth!" said my uncle Toby; "he has. 
been bred up from an infant in the army ; and 
the name of a soldier. Trim, sounded in his ears 
like the name of a friend, I wish I had him 
here." 

"I never, in the longest march," said the cor- 
poral, " had so great a mind to my dinner, as I had 
to cry vidth hun for company. What could be the 
matter with me, an't please your honour 1" 

" Nothing in the world, Trim," said my uncle 
Toby, blovsring his nose ; " but that thou art a 
good-natured fellow." 

"When I gave him the toast," continued the 
corporal, "I thought it was proper to tell him I was 
Captain Shandy's servant, and that your honour, 



though a stranger, was extremely concerned for his. 
father ; and that, if there was anything in your 
house or cellar " — " And thou mightst have added 
my purse, too," said my uncle Toby — " he was 
heartily welcome to it. He made a very low bow, 
which was meant to your honour ; but no answer, 
for his heart was full ; so he went upstairs with 
the toast. 

" ' I warrant you, my dear,' said I, as I opened 
the kitchen door, ' your father will be well again.' 
Mr. Yorick's curate was smoking a pipe by the 
kitchen fire, but said not a word, good or bad, to 
comfort the youth. I thought it wrong," added 
the corporal. 

" I think so, too," said my uncle Toby. 

"When the lieutenant had taken his glass of 
sack and toast, he felt himself a little revived, and 
sent do-rni into the kitchen to let me know that in 
about ten minutes he should be glad if I would 
step upstairs. 

" ' I believe,' said the landlord, ' he is going to 
say his prayers, for there was a book laid upon the 
chair by his bedside ; and as I shut the door I saw 
his son take up a cushion.' 

" ' I thought,' said the curate, ' that you gentle- 
men of the army, Mr. Trim, never said your 
prayers at all." 

" ' I heard the poor gentleman say his prayers last 
night,' said the landlady, ' very devoutly, and with 
my own ears, or I could not have believed it.' 

"'Are you sure of it?' replied the curate. 

" ' A soldier, an't please your reverence,' said I,, 
' prays as often of his own accord as a parson ; and 
when he is fighting for his king, and for his own 
life, and for his honour, too, he has the most reason 
to pray to God of any one in the whole world.' " 

" 'Twas well said of thee. Trim," said my imcle 
Toby. 

" ' But when a soldier,' said I, ' an't please your 
reverence, has been standing for twelve hours 
together in the trenches up to his knees in cold 
water, or engaged,' said I, ' for months together in 
long and dangerous marches ; harassed, perhaps, 
in his rear to-day ; harassing others to-morrow ; 
detached here ; countermanded there ; resting this 
night out upon his arms ; beat up in his shirt the 
next ; benumbed in his joints ; perhaps without 
straw in his tent to kneel on ; he must say his 
prayers how and when he can. I believe,' said I, 
for I was piqued," quoth the corporal, "for the 
reputation of the army — ' I believe, an't please your 
reverence,' said I, ' that when a soldier gets time to 
pray, he prays as heartily as a parson, though not 
with all his fun and hypociisy.' " 

" Thou shouldst not have said that, Trim," said 
my uncle Toby ; " for God only knows who is a 
hypocrite and who is not. At the great and 
general review of us all, corporal — at the day of 
judgment and not till then — it will be seen whO' 



THE STORY OF LE FEVRE. 



239 



have done their duty in this world and who have 
not, and we shall be advanced, Trim, accordingly." 

" I hope we shall," said Trim. 

" It is in the Scripture," said my uncle Toby ; 
" and I will show it thee to-morrow. In the mean- 
time, we may depend upon it. Trim, for our com- 
fort," said my uncle Toby, " that God Almighty is 
so good and just a governor of the world, that if 
we have but done our duty in it, it will never be 
inquired into whether we have done it in a red 
coat or a black one." 

" I hope not," said the corporal. 

" But go on, Trim," said my uncle Toby, " with 
thy story." 

" When I went up," continued the corporal, " into 
the lieutenant's room, which I did not do till the 
expiration of the'ten minutes, he was lying in his 
bed with his head raised upon his hand, his elbow 
upon the pillow, and a clean white cambric hand- 
kerchief beside it. The youth was just stooping 
down to take up the cushion, ujaon which I sup- 
posed he had been kneeling ; the book was laid 
upon the bed ; and, as he arose, in taking up the 
cushion with one hand, he reached out his other to 
take it away at the same time. 

" ' Let it remain there, my dear,' said the lieu- 
tenant. 

"He did not offer to speak to me till I had 
walked up close to his bedside. 

" ' If yoa are Captain Shandy's servant,' said he, 
' you must present my thanks to your master, with 
my little boy's thanks along with them for his 
courtesy to me. If he was of Leven's,' said the 
lieutenant. 

" I told him your honour was. 

" ' Then,' said he, ' I served three campaigns with 
him in Flanders, and remember him ; but 'tis most 
likely, as I had not the honour of any acquaintance 
with him, that he knows nothing of me. You will 
teU him, however, that the person his good nature 
has laid under obligation to him is one Le Fevre, a 
lieutenant in Angus's. But he knows me not,' said 
he, a .second time, musing. ' Possibly he may my 
story,' added he. ' Pray tell the captain I was the 
ensign at Breda, whose wife was most unfortu- 
nately killed with a musket-shot as she lay in my 
arms in my tent.' 

"'I remember the story, an't please your 
honour,' said I, ' very well.' 

" ' Do you so ? ' said he, wiping his eyes with his 
handkerchief ; ' then well may I.' 

" In saying this he drew a little ring out of his 
bosom, which seemed tied with a black riband 
about his neck, and kissed it twice. 

" ' Here, Billy,' said he. 

" The boy fiew across the room to the bedside, 
and, falling down upon his knees, took the ring in 
his hand, and kissed it too ; then kissed his father, 
and sat down upon the bed and wept." 



" I wish," said my uncle Toby, with a deep sigh, 
" I wish. Trim, I was asleep." 

" Your honour," replied the corporal, " is too 
much concerned. Shall I pour your honour out a 
glass of sack to your pipe 1 " 

" Do, Trim," said my uncle Toby. " But finish 
the story thou art upon." 

" 'Tis finished already," said the corporal ; " for 
I could stay no longer ; so wished his honour a 
good night. Young Le Fevre rose from off the bed, 
and saw me to the bottom of the stairs, and, as we 
went down together, told me they had come from 
Ireland, and were on their route to join the regi- 
ment in Flanders. But, alas ! " said the corporal, 
"the lieutenant's last day's march is over." 

" Then what is to become of his poor boy ?" cried 
my uncle Toby. 

****** 

"Thou hast left this matter short," said my 
uncle Toby to the corporal, as he was putting him 
to bed ; " and I will tell thee in what. Trim. In 
the first place, when thou madest an oifer of my 
services to Le Fevre — as sickness and travelling 
are both expensive, and thou knowest he was but 
a poor lieutenant, with a son to subsist as well as 
himself out of his pay — that thou didst not make 
an offer to him of my purse ; because, had he stood 
in need, thou knowest. Trim, he had been as wel- 
come to it as myself." 

" Your honour knows," said the corporal, " I had 
no orders." 

" True ! " quoth my uncle Toby ; " thou didst 
very right. Trim, as a soldier, but certainly very 
wrong as a man. In the second place, for which 
indeed thou hast the same excuse," continued my 
uncle Toby, "when thou offeredst him whatever 
was in my house, thou shouldst have offered him 
my house too. A sick brother officer should have 
the best quarters. Trim ; and if we had him with 
us, we could tend and look to him. Thou art an 
excellent nurse thyself, Trim ; and what with thy 
care of him, and the old woman's, and his boy's, and 
mine together, we might recruit him at once, and 
set him on his legs. In a fortnight or three weeks," 
added my uncle Toby, smiling, " he might march." 

" He will never march, an't please your honour, 
in this world," said the corporal: 

" He will march," said my uncle Toby, rising up 
from the side of the bed, with one shoe off. 

"An't please your honour," said the corporal, 
" he will never march but to his grave." 

" He shall march," cried my uncle Toby, march- 
ing the foot which had one shoe on, though with- 
out advancing an inch, — " he shall march to his 
regiment ! " 

" He cannot stand it," said the corporal. 

"He shall be supported," said my uncle Toby. 

" He'll drop at last," .said the corporal ; " and 
what will become of his boy 1 " 



MO 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



" He shall not drop," said my uncle Toby, 
firmly. 

" All, well-a-day ! do what we can for him," said 
Trim, maintaining his point, "the poor soul will 
die." 

" He shall not die, by ," cried my uncle 

Toby. 

The accusing spirit, which flew up to Heaven's 
chancery -ivith the oath, blushed as he gave it in ; 
and the recording angel, as he wrote it down, 
dropped a tear ujion the word, and blotted it out 
for ever. 

My uncle Toby went to his bureau ; put his 
purse into his breeches pocket ; and having 
ordered the corporal to go early in the morning 
for a jihysician, he went to bed and fell asleep. 

The sun looked bright the morning after to every 
eye in the village but Le Fevre's and his afflicted 
son's. The hand of Death pressed heavy upon his 
eyelids, and hardly could the wheel at the cistern 
turn round its circle, when my uncle Toby, who 
had risen an hour before his wonted time, entered 
the lieutenant's room, and without preface or 
apology, sat himself down upon the chair by the 
bedside; and, independently of all modes and 
customs, opened the curtain in the manner an old 
friend and Ijrother officer would ha-\'e done it, and 
asked him how he did — how he had rested in the 
night — what was his complaint — where was his 
pain — and what he could do to help him. And 



without giving him time to answer any one of the^ 
inquiries, he went on and told him of the little plan, 
which he had been concerting with the corporal the 
night before for him. 

" You .shall go home directly, Le Fevre," said mj^ 
uncle Toby, " to my house, and we'll have an 
apothecary, and the corporal shall be your nurse^ 
and I'll be your servant, Le Fevre." 

There was a frankness in my uncle Toby — not 
the effect of familiarity, but the cause of it — which 
let you at once into his soul, and showed you the 
goodness of his nature ; to this there was some- 
thing in his looks, and voice, and manner super- 
added, which eternally beckoned to the unfortunate 
to come and take shelter under him ; so that before 
my uncle Toby had half finished the kind offers he 
was making to the father, he had the son insensibly 
pressed up close to his knees, and had taken hold 
of the breast of his coat, and was pulling it towards- 
him. The blood and spirits of Le Fevre, which 
were waxing cold and slow within him, and were 
retreating to their last citadel, the heart, rallied 
back ; the film forsook his eyes for a moment ; he 
looked up wistfully in my uncle Toby's face, then 
cast a look upon his boy ; and that ligament, fine 
as it was, was never broken. Nature instantly 
ebbed again ; the film returned to its place ; the 
pulse flu-ttered — stopped — went on — throbbed — 
stopped again — moved — stopped ! Shall I go on I 
No. 



THE JACKDAW OF EHEIMS.* 

[ax ingoldset legeni>.] 




THE Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair ! 
Bishop and abbot and prior were there ; 
]\Iany a monk, and many a friar. 
Many a knight, and many a squire, 
With a gTeat many more of lesser degree,- 
In sooth a goodly company ; 



And they served the Lord Primate on bended 
knee. 

Never I ween. 

Was a prouder seen, 
Pbead of in books, or dreamt of in dreams, 
Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims I 

In and out 

Through the motley rout. 
That little Jackdaw kept hopping about i 

Here and there. 

Like a dog in a fair, 

Over comfits and cates. 

And dishes and plates, 
Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall. 
Mitre and crosier ! he hopp'd upon all 1 

With saucy air. 

He perch'd on the chair 
Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sab 
In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat ; 

And he peer'd in the face 

Of his Lordship's Grace, 



* Ke-yrinted by permissiou of Messrs. Bentley. 



THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS. 



With a satisfied look, as if he would say, 

■*' We two are the greatest folks here to-day ! " 

And the priests, with awe, 

As such freaks they saw, 
Said, " The devil must be in that little Jackdaw ! " 
The feast was over, the board was clear'd, 
The flawns and the custards had all disappe.'.rd. 
And six little Singing-boys, — dear little souls ! 
In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles, 

Came, in order clue, 

Two by two, 
IMarching that grand refectory through ! 



Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing. 
That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring ! 
# * # * * -J 

There's a cry and a shout. 
And a deuce of a rout, 
And nobody seems to know what they're about. 
But the monks have their pockets all turned inside 
out. 

The friars are kneeling. 
And hunting, and feeling 
The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the 
ceiling. 




The fkiars are kneeunc;, and hunting." 



A nice little boy held a golden ewer, 
Emboss'd and fill'd with water, as pure 
As any that flows between Eheinis and ^^Tamur, 
Which a nice little boy, stood ready to catch 
In a fine golden hand- basin made to match. 
Two nice little boys, rather more grown. 
Carried lavender-water, and eau de Cologne ; 
And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap, 
Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope. 

One little boy more 

A napkin bore, 
Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink, 
And a Cardinal's Hat mark'd " in permanent ink' 

The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight 
Of these nice little boys dressed all in white : 

From his finger he draws 

His costly turquoise ; 
And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws, 

Deposits it straight 

By the side of his plate, 
While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait ; 
2 E 



The Cardinal drew 
Off each plum-coloured shoe, 
And left his red stockings exposed to the view ; 
He peeps, and he feels 
In the toes and the heels ; 
They turn up the dishes, — they turn up the 

jjlates, — 
They take up the poker and poke out the grates, 
— They turn up the rugs, 
They examine the mugs : — 
But, no ! — no such thing ; — 
They can't find the ring ! 
And the Abbot declared that, "when nobody 

twigg'd it. 
Some rascal or other had popp'd in and prigg'd 

it!" 
The Cardinal rose with a dignified look. 
He call'd for his candle, his bell, and his book i 
In holy anger, and pious grief. 
He solemnly cursed that rascally thief ! 
He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed ; 
From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head ) 



242 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



He cursed him in sleeping, that every night 
He should dream of the devil, and wake in a 

fright ; 
He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in 

drinking, 
He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in 

winking ; 
He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying ; 
He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying. 
He cursed him in living, he cursed him in 
dying !— 
Never was heard such a terrible curse .' 
But what gave rise 
To no little surprise. 
Nobody seem'd one penny the worse ! 

The day was gone. 

The night came on, 
The Monks and the Friars they search'd till dawn ; 

When the Sacristan saw, 

On crumpled claw, 
Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw ! 
. No longer gay, 

As on yesterday ; 
His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong 

way ;— 
His pinions droop'cl — he could hardly stand, — 
His head was as bald as the palm of your hand ; 

His eye so dim. 

So wasted each limb. 
That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, "That's 

HIM ! — 
That's the scamp that has done this scandalous 

thing ! 
That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's 
Ring!". 

The poor little Jackdaw, 

When the monks he saw, 
Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw ; 
And turn'd his bald head, as much as to say, 
" Pray, be so good as to walk this way ! " 

Slower and slower 

He limp'd on before, 
Till they came to the back of the belfry door. 



Where the first thing they saw. 

Midst the sticks and the straw. 

Was the eing in the nest of that little Jackdaw ! 

Then the great Lord Cardinal call'd for his book,. 
And off that terrible curse he took ; 

The mute expression 

Served in lieu of confession. 
And being thus coupled with full restitution, 
The Jackdaw got plenary absolution ! 

— When those words were heard, 

That poor little bird 
Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd^ 

He grew sleek and fat ; 

In addition to that, 
A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat ! 

His tail waggled more 

Even than before ; 
But no longer it wagg'd with an impudent air. 
No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair. 

He hopp'd now about. 

With a gait devout ; 
At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out ; 
And, so far from any more pilfering deeds. 
He always seem'd telling the Confessor's beads. 
If any one lied, — or if any one swore, — 
Or slumber'd in pray'r-time and happened ta 
snore. 

That good Jackdaw 

Would give a great " Caw ! " 
As much as to say, " Don't do so any more ! " 
While many remarked, as his manners they saw. 
That they " never had known such a pious 
Jackdaw '" 

He long lived the pride 

Of that country side. 
And at last in the odour of sanctity died ; 

When, as words were too faint 

His merits to paint. 
The Conclave determined to make him a Saint • 
And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you 

know. 
It's the custom at Rome new names to bestow. 
So they canonised him by the name of Jim Crow. 





AT ANCHOR BEFORE THE PACHA. (Drawn by W. Ealston.) 

" T£r£ TALE OF THE EyQLISH SAILOH" {p. S«L 



THE TALE OF THE ENGLISH SAILOR. 



343 



THE TALE OF THE ENGLISH SAILOE* 

[By Captain Marryat.] 




HAVE an infidel in the courtyard," 
replied Mustapha, "who telleth of 
strange things. He hath been 
caught like a wild beast ; it is a 
Frank Galiongi, who hath travelled 
as far as that son of Shitan, Huck- 
aback ; he was found in the streets, 
overpowered by the forbidden juice, 
.after having beaten many of your highness's 
subjects ; and the cadi would have administered 
the bamboo, but he was as a lion, and he scattered 
the slaves as chatf, until he fell, and could not 
rise again. I have taken him from the cadi, and 
brought him here. He speaketh but the Frankish 
tongue, but the sun who shineth on me knoweth I 
have been in the Frank country, and Inshallah ! 
I can interpret his meaning." 

" What sort of a man may he be, Mustapha ? " 

" He is a baj baj — a stout man ; he is an an- 
hunkher, a swallower of iron. He hath sailed in 
the war- vessels of the Franks. He holdeth in one 
hand a bottle of the forbidden liquor, in the other 
he shakes at those who would examine him a 
thick stick. He hath a large handful of the 
precious weed which we use for our pipes in one 
of his cheeks, and his hair is hanging behind down 
to his waist, in a roUed-up mass, as thick as the 
arm of your slave." 

" It is well — we will admit him ; but let there 
be armed men at hand. Let me have a full pipe. 
'God is great," continued the pacha, holding out 
his glass to be filled ; " and the bottle is nearly 
empty. Place the guards, and brmg in the infidel. " 

The guards in a few minutes brought into the 
presence of the pacha a stout-built EngKsh saUor, 
in the usual dress, and with a tail which hung 
■down behind, below his waist. The sailor did 
not appear to like his treatment, and every now 
and then, as they pushed and dragged him in 
turned to one side or the other, looking daggers 
at those who conducted him. He was sober, 
although his eyes bore testimony to recent intoxi- 
cation ; and his face, which was manly and hand- 
some, was much disfigured by an enormous quid 
of tobacco in his right cheek, which gave him an 
appearance of natural deformity. As soon as he 
was near enough to the pacha the attendants let 
him go. Jack shook his jacket, hitched up his 
trousers, and said, looking furiously at them, 
"Well, you beggars, have you done with me at 
last?" 

Mustapha addressed the sailor in English, 



telling him that he was in the presence of his 
highness the pacha. 

" What, that old chap muffled up in shawls and 
furs — is he the pacha 1 Well, I don't think much 
o' he ; " and the sailor turned his eyes round the 
room, gaping with astonishment, and perfectly 
unmindful how very near he was to one who 
could cut off his head or his tail by a single move- 
ment of his hand. 

"What sayeth the Frank, Mustapha?" inquired 
the pacha. 

" He is struck dumb with astonishment at the 
splendour of your majesty, and all that he 
beholds." 

" It is well said, by Allah! " 

" I suppose I may just as well come to an 
anchor," said the sailor, suiting the action to the 
word, and dropping down on the mats. " There," 
continued he, folding his legs in imitation of the 
Turks, " as it's the fashion to have a cross in your 
hawse in this here country, I can be a bit of a 
lubber as well as yourselves ; I wouldn't mind if 
I blew a cloud as well as you, old fusty-musty." 

" What does the Giaour say 1 What son of a 
dog is this, to sit in our presence ? " exclaimed the 
pacha. 

" He saith," replied Mustapha, "that in his 
country no one dare stand in the presence of the 
Frankish king ; and, overcome by his humility, 
his legs refuse their office, and he sinks to the 
dust before you. It is even as he sayeth, for I 
have travelled in their country, and such is the 
custom of that uncivilised nation. Mashallah.' 
but he lives in awe and trembling." 

"By the beard of the Prophet, he does not 
appear to show it outwardly," replied the pacha ; 
"but that may be the custom also." 

"Be chesm, on my eyes be it," replied Mustapha, 
"it is even so. Frank," said Mustapha, "the 
pacha has sent for you that he may hear an 
account of all the wonderful things which you 
have seen. You must tell hes, and you will have 
gold." 

" Tell lies ! that is, to spin a yarn ; well, I can 
do that, but my mouth's baked with thirst, and 
without a drop of something no yarn from me, 
and so you may tell the old billy-goat perched 
up there." 

" What sayeth the son of Shitan 1 " demanded 
the pacha, impatiently. 

" The unbeliever declareth that his tongue ia 
glued to his moiith from the terror of your 



* Prom " Tlie Pacha of Many Tales." By pennission of Messrs. George Eoutledge and Sons. 



244 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



liiglmess's presence. He fainteth after water to 
restore him, and enable him to speak." 

" Let him be fed," rejoined the paclia. 

But Mustapha had heard enough to know that 
the sailor would not be content witli the pure 
element. He therefore continued, "Your slave 
must tell you that in the country of the Franks 
they drink nothing but the fire-water, in which 
the true believers but occasionally venture to 
indulge." 

"AUah acbar! nothing but iire-water] What, 
then, do they do with common water 1 " 

" They have none but from heaven — the rivers 
are all of the same strength." 

" Mashallah, how wonderful is God ! I would 
we had a river here. Let 
some be procured, then, 
for I wish to hear his 
story." 

A bottle of brandy was 
sent for, and handed to 
the sailor, who put it to 
his mouth, and the quan- 
tity he took of it before 
he removed the bottle to 
recover his breath fully 
convinced the pacha that 
Mustapha's assertions 
were true. 

J' Come, that's not so 
bad," said the sailor, 
putting the bottle down 
between his legs ; " and 
now I'll be as good as my 
word, and I'll spin old 
Billy a yarn as long as the maintop-bowling." 

" What sayeth the Giaour ? interrupted the 
pacha. 

" That he is about to lay at your highness's feet 
the wonderful events of his life, and trusts that his 
face will be whitened before he quits your sublime 
presence. Frank, you may proceed." 

" To lie till I'm black in the face — well, since 
you wish it ; but, old chap, my name ar'n't Frank. 
It happens to be Bill ; howsomever, it warn't a 
bad guess for a Turk. 

" I was born at Shields, and bred to the sea, 
served my time out of that port, and got a berth 
on board a small vessel fitted out from Liverpool 
for the slave trade. We made the coast, unstowed 
our beads, spirits, and gunpowder, and very soon 
had a cargo on board ; but the clay after we sailed 
for the Havannah, the dysentery broke out among 
the niggers — no wonder, seeing how they were 
stowed, poor devils, head and tail, like pilchards 
in a cask. We opened the hatches and brought 
part of them on deck ; but it was no use, they died 
like rotten sheep, and we tossed overboard about 




thirty a day. Many others, who were alive, jumped 
overboard, and we were followed by a shoal of 
sharks, splashing and darting, and diving, and tear- 
ing the bodies, yet warm, and revelling in the hot 
and bloody water. At last they were all gone, and 
we turned back to the coast to get a fresh supply. 
We were within a day's sail of the land, when we 
saw two boats on our weather bow ; they made 
sig-nals to us, and we found them to be full of men. 
We hove-to, and took them on board, and thei\. it 
was that we discovered that they had belonged to 
a French schooner, in the same trade, which had 
started a plank, and had gone down hke a shot, 
with all the niggers in the hold. 

" Now give the old gentlema-.i the small change 
of that, while I just whet 
my whistle." 

Mustapha having in- 
terpreted, and the sailor 
having taken a swig at 
the bottle, he proceeded. 
" We didn't much like 
having these French beg- 
gars on board, and it 
wasn't without reason, 
for they were as many as 
we were. The very first 
night they were over- 
heard by a negro who 
belonged to us, and had 
learnt French, making a 
plan for overpowering us,, 
and taking possession of 
the vessel ; so when we 
heard that, their doom 
was sealed. We mustered ourselves on deck, put 
the hatches over some o' the French, seized those 
on deck, and — in half an hour, they all walked 
the plank." 

" I do not understand what you mean," said. 
Mustapha. 

" That's 'cause you're a lubber of a landsman. 
The long and short of walking a plank is just this. 
We passed a wide plank over the gunnel, greasing 
it well at the outer end, led the Frenchmen up to 
it blindfolded, and wished them ' bon voyage ' in 
their o-mi lingo, just out of politeness. They walked 
on till they toppled into the sea, and the sharks, 
didn't refuse them, though they prefer a nigger tO' 
anything else." 

" What does he say, Mustapha ? " interrupted the 
pacha. Mustapha interpreted. 

" Good ! I should like to have seen that," replied, 
the pacha. 

" Well, as soon as we were rid of the Frenchmen,, 
we made our port, and soon had another cargo on. 
board, and, after a good run, got safe to the 
Havannah, where we sold our slaves ; but I didn't 
much like the service, so I cut the schooner, and 



THE TALE OF THE ENGLISH SAILOR. 



245 



sailed home in summer, and got safe back to Eng- 
land. There I fell in with Betsy, and, as she 
proved a regular out-and-outer, I spliced her, and 
a famous wedding we had of it, as long as the rhino 
lasted ; but that wasn't long, more's the pity ; so 
I went to sea for more. When I came back after 
my trip I found that Bet hadn't behaved quite so 
well as she might have done, so I cut my stick, and 
went away from her altogether." 

" Why didn't you put her in a sack 1 " inquired 
the pacha, when Mustapha explained. 

" Put her head in a bag — no ; she wasn't so ugly 
as all that," replied the sailor. " Howsomever, to 
coil away : I joined a privateer brig, and after 
three cruises I had plenty of money, and deter- 
mined to have another spell on shore, that I might 
get rid of it. Then I picked up Sue, and spliced 
again ; but, bless your heart, she turned out 
a regular-built Tartar— nothing but fight, fight, 
scratch, scratch, all day long, till I wished her at 
old Scratch. I was tired of her, and Sue had 
taken a fancy to another chap ; so says she one 
day, ' As we both be of the same mind, why don't 
you sell me, and then we may part in a re.spectable 
manner.' I agrees, and I puts a halter round her 
neck, and leads her to the market-place, the chap 
following to buy her. ' Who bids for this woman 1 ' 
says I. 

" ' I do,' says he. 

" ' What will you give 1 ' 

" ' Half-a-crown,' says he. 

" ' Will you throw a glass of grog into the bar- 
gain 1 ' 

" ' Yes,' says he. 

" ' Then she's yours ; and I wish you much joy 
of your bargain.' So I hands tlie rope to him, and 
he leads her off." 

" How much do you say he sold his wife for 1 " 
said the pacha to Mustapha, when this part of the 
story was repeated to him. 

" A piastre and a drink of the fire-water," replied 
the vizier. 

" Ask him if she was handsome," said the pacha. 

" Handsome ! " replied the sailor, to Mustapha's 
inquiry ; " yes, she was as pretty a craft to look at 
as you may set your eyes upon." 

* * * * * * 

" Mashallah ! all for a piastre ! Ask him, Mus- 
tapha, if there are more wives to be sold in that 
country." 

" More ! " replied the sailor, in answer to Mus- 
tapha ; " you may have a shipful in an hour. 
There's many a fellow in England who would give 
a handful of coin to get rid of his wife." 

" We vnl\ make further inquiry, Mustapha ; it 
must be looked to. Say I not well f " 

" It is well said," replied ^Mustapha. " My heart 
is burnt as roast meat at the recollection of the 
women of that country, who are indeed, as he de- 



cribed, houris to the sight. Proceed, Yaha Bibby, 

my friend, and tell his " 

" Yaw Bibby ! I told you my name was Bill, not. 
Bibby ; and I never yaws from my course, although 
I heaves-to sometimes, as I do now, to take in pro- 
visions." The sailor took another swig, wiped his 
mouth with the back of his hand, and continued — 
" Now for a good lie. 

" I sailed in a brig for the Brazils, and a gale 
came on that I never see'd the like of. AVe were 
obliged to have three men stationed to hold the 
captain's hair on his head, and a little boy was 
blown over the moon, and slid down by two or 
three of her beams, till he caught the mainstay, 
and never hurt himself." 

" Good ! " said Mustapha, who interpreted. 

'' By the beard of the Prophet, wonderful ! " ex- 
claimed the pacha. 

"Well, the gale lasted for a week, and at last 
one night, when I was at the helm, we dashed on 
the rocks of a desolate island. I was pitched right 
over the mountains, and fell into the sea on the 
other side of the island. I swam on shore, and 
got into a cave, where I fell fast asleep. The next 
morning I found that there was nothing to eat 
except rats, and they were plentiful ; but they were 
so quick that I cortld not catch them. I walked 
about, and at last discovered a great many rats to- 
gether ; they were at a spring of water, the only 
one, as I afterwards found, on the island. Kats 
can't do without water, and I thought I should 
have them there. I filled up the spring, all but a 
hole, which I sat on the top of. When the rats, 
came again, I filled my mouth with water, and held 
it wide open ; they ran up to drink, and I caught, 
their heads in my teeth, and thus I took as many 
as I wished." 

" Aferin, excellent ! " cried the pacha, as soon as. 
this was explained. 

" WeU, at last a vessel took me off, and I wasn't 
sorry for it, for raw rats are not very good eating. 
I went home again, and I hadn't been on shore 
more than two hours, when who should I see but 
my first wife Bet, with a robin-redbreast in tow. 
' That's he,' says she. I gave fight, but was nabbed 
and put into limbo, to be tried for what they call 
bigr/eri/, or having a wife too much." 

"How does he mean? Desire him to explain," 
said the pacha, after Mustapha had conveyed the- 
intelligence. Mustapha obeyed. 

" In our country one wife is considered a man's. 
allowance ; and he is not to take more, that every 
.Jack may have his Jill. I had spliced two, so they 
tried me, and sent me to Botany Bay for life." 
******** 

" Well," rejoined the pacha, " what are they biit. 
infidels 1 They deserve to have no more. Houris 
are for the faithful. May their fathers' graves be. 
defiled. Let the Giaour proceed." 



246 



GLEANINGS FEOM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



" Well. I was started for the other side of the 
water, and got there safe enough, as I hope one day 
to get to heaven, wind and weather permitting ; 
but I had no idea of working without pay, so one 
fine morning I slipped away into the woods, where 
I remained with three or four more for six months. 
We lived upon kangaroos, and another odd little 
animal, and got on pretty well." 

" What may the dish of kangaroos be composed 
of?" inquired Mustapha, in obedience to the 
pacha. 

" 'Posed of ! why, a dish of kangaroos be made 
of kangaroos, to be sure. But I'U be dished if I 
talk about anything but the animal, which we had 
some trouble to kill ; for it stands on its big tail, 
and fights with all four feet. Moreover, it be 
otherwise a strange beast ; for its young ones pop 
out of its stomach and then pop in again, having a 
place there on purpose, just like the great hole in 
the bow of a timber ship : and as for the other 
little animal, it swims in the ponds, lays eggs, and 
has a duck's bill, yet stiU it be covered all over 
with hair, like a beast." 

The vizier interpreted. " By the Prophet, but 
he laughs at our beards ! " exclaimed the pacha, 
angrily. " These are foolish lies." 

" You must not tell the pacha such foolish Hes. 
He wOl be angry," said Mustapha. " Tell hes, but 
they must be good lies." 

" After I had been there about six months I was 
tired, and as there was only twenty thousand miles 
between that country and my own, I determined 
to swim back." 

" MashaUah ! swim back ! — how many thousand 
mUes 1 " exclaimed Mustapha. 

" Only twenty thousand — a mere nothing. 

" So one fine morning I throws a young kangaroo 
on my shoulder, and off I starts. I swam for three 



months, night and day, and then feeling a little 
tired, I laid-to on my back, and then I set oft' 
again ; but by this time I was so covered with 
barnacles, that I made but little way. So I stopped 
at Ascension, scraped and cleaned myself, and 
then, after feeding for a week on turtle, just to 
keep the scurvy out of my bones, I set ofl^ again ; 
and, as I passed the Gut, I thought I might just 
as well put in here ; and here I arrived, sure 
enough, yesterday, about three beUs in the morning 
watch, after a voyage of five months and three days.'' 

When Mustapha translated all this to the pacha, 
the latter was lost in astonishment. " Allah acbar ; 
God is everjrwhere ! Did you ever hear of such a 
swimmer 1 Twenty thousand miles — five months 
and three days. It is a wonderful story ! Let his 
mouth be fiUed with gold." 

Mustapha intimated to the sailor the unexpected 
compliment about to be conferred on him, just as 
he had finished the bottle and roUed it away on 
one side. " Well, that be a rum way of paying a 
man. I have heard it said that a fellow pursed up 
his mouth ; but I never afore heard of a mouth 
being a i^trse. Howsomever, aU's one for that; 
only, d'ye see, if you are about to stow it away in 
bulk, it may be just as well to get rid of the dun- 
nage." The sailor put his thumb and forefinger 
into his cheek, and pulled out the enormous quid 
of tobacco. " There now, I'm ready, and don't be 
afraid of choking me." One of the attendants 
then thrust several pieces of gold into the sailor's 
mouth, who, spitting them all out into his hat, 
jumped on his legs and made a jerk of his head, 
with a kick of the leg behind, to the pacha ; and, 
declaring that he was the funniest old beggar he 
had ever fallen in \nXh, nodded to Mustapha, and 
hastened out of the divan. 

" MashaUah ! but he swims well," said the pacha, 
breaking up the audience. 



GOKE HOME ON NEW YEAR'S EVE. 

[By P. E. 'Weatherlt,] 



"STuT OME," did you say, my darling ? We haven't 
31! "IL got where to go ! 

^^^ Only the dreary pavement, only the freez- 
ing snow, 
Only the hard cold stones against our weary 

feet. 
Only the flaring lamplight, only the open 
street ! 

" Cold," did you say, my darling ? I know the 

cloak is thin. 
But I haven't got anything better or warmer to 

wrap you in ! 



Yet hug it closer round you, though it is so thin 

and old. 
And we'll go and sit on this doorstep, out of the 

bitter cold ! 

We can hear the loud bells ringing : I love to hear 

them so ! 
They remind me of one past New Year's Eve, only 

a year ago ; 
Only twelve short, short months, but they seem 

like as many years ; 
Then my eyes shone brightly, but now — they are 

dull with tears. 



GONE HOME ON NEW YEAR'S EVE. 



247 



A New Year's Eve, my darling, — the last that I 

was to see 
With my husband, round the fireside, and you upon 

my knee ; 
And, as the bells were ringing — just as it may be 

to-night — 
He talked of the past and the present, and all 

looked cheerful and bright. 

He talked of a soft spring morning, when first he 

saw my face : — 
He was an unknown painter, and had come to 

stay in the place ; 
And he used to take his painting out in the sunny 

land — 
It was there that first I met him, it was there that 

he asked my hand. 

And oft at eve in the sunlight by the fern-clad 

stile we stood 
That leads from the field of clover into the hazel 

wood, 
While the thousand voices of labour came up 

from the village below. 
And through the leaves beside us we heard the 

river flow. 

And fondly he talked of our marriage, and anon 

of a happy morn, 
All in the flowery summer, when, darling, you 

were born ; 
Until soon the candle flickered, and the falling 

ashes grew dim — 
Then we slept, and through the quiet I lay and 

dreamt of him. 

Gladly I woke on the morrow, the first day of the 

year ; 
Gladly I heard from the village the chimes go loud 

and clear : 
Gladly I woke, and leant over to kiss your sunny 

hair, 
And I turned to kiss your father — I turned — but 

he was not there. 

Gone ! after all his fondness, on the Old Year's 

dying day ! 
Gone ! after all his kind words ! But a letter 

remained to say 
That he long had feared his parents wouldn't know 

him for their own,. 
If they heard of his humble marriage — so he left 

me all alone ! 

And the parish turned us out : it wasn't our house, 

they said ; 
Ah me ! but is it wicked to wish that I were 

dead? 



They came and turned us out, and we hadn't got 

where to go, — 
Only the dreary common, only the driving snow. 

And all looked bleak and friendless, and I clasped 

you, darling, tight — 
Clasped you tight to my bosom, and away in the 

dark rough night, 
Away from the sleeping vUlage, along the desolate 

road 
We walked, until soon before us the lights in 

London glowed. 

But the brightness seemed to mock us, and the 

glare to laugh us down, 
As weary and faint with our journey we entered 

the noisy town ; 
And the heartless passers spurned us — they never 

had known a care — 
Oh God ! it is hard, my darUng — Oh God ! it is 

hard to bear ! 

And once on an Autumn evening, as I was wander- 
ing by, 

I stopped and looked in at a window, I looked — 
but I know not why ; 

And by the cheerful fireside I saw a well-known 
face, 

And another, a lovely maiden, was sitting there in 
my place. 

And my spirit yearned towards Tier, but could 7 

say a word 1 
So I bitterly wept at the window — it was only the 

rain they heard : 
My spirit yearned towards her, to tell her to have 

good care : 
For I said in my anger, " The painter has another 

victim there ! " 

But I checked the words of anger, I wouldn't 

darken their love, 
If he doesn't care about me, there's One who does 

above ! 
Yet still I can see that window, and the well-known 

features there — 
Oh God ! it is hard, my darling — Oh God ! it is 

hard to bear ! 

It was only yesterday evening that they passed us 

in the street, 
But he turned his face to the darkness, not to see 

who lay at his feet. 
Nor saw the sweet look of compassion that crossed 

his wife's fair face — 
Little, I trow, she fancied she held my rightful 

place ! 



248 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 




■ I STOPPED AND LOOKED IN AT A WINDOW." (Brawiihy F. BicTxsec, A.R.A.) 



Xisten ! the bells are telling the Year is dying 

slow : 
It was just like this that I heard them only a year 

ago ! 
They sound like the bells of our village, rolling up 

from below the hill — 
Why don't you answer, darling ? why do you lie so 

still] 

Why are the blue eyes closed 1 Why are the limbs 

so cold? 
And yet on the pale lip lingers the sunny smile of 

old- 



[But while the bells were ringing out through the 

frosty air, 
An angel had taken my darling to Heaven, to be 

happy there !] 

"Home," did yon say, my darling'? Yes, you've, 

found a home of rest. 
Although your frail little body hangs lifeless on my 

breast ! 
" Home," did I say, my darling 1 I haven't got 

where to go, — 
Only the hard, hard pavement — only the cold, cold 

snow ! 



MR. GRAINS' LAKE. 



249 




ME. GEAINS' LAKE, 



-H, yes ! I know well what observation my 
story is calculated to draw from an un- 
sympathetic reader's lips ; " A worm at 

one end and a ," in short, a very 

rude remark. But I am hardened. It 
is my custom in the autumn, when the 
weeds are rotting, to bring a small skiff 
to anchor on the shallows of the river 
Thames, below locks, and fly -fish for dace, and the 
opinions of the British public are very freely con- 
fided to me by perfect strangers in passing pleasure- 
boats. Some of these remarks, which are never 
complimentary, are addressed to me- personally ; 
others, generally more severe, are intended for 
private circulation only ; but, in consequence of 
water being such a good conductor of sound, are 
perfectly audible, and find a mark the archer (or 
archeress) Kttle meant. When ladies learn 
acoustics, thin-skinned anglers will be spared 
much pain and confusion of face. When young 
and (comparatively) beautiful, a feminine relative 
would occasionally take a sympathetic seat in the 
stern of my boat, and then the passing observa- 
tions invariably assumed the form of compassion 
for her. " Poor thing ! " " How dull ! " said the 
gay and thoughtless ones, who were seeking an 
appetite for their Star and Garter dinner in the 
fresh air of the river. When my fair companion 
happened to be without the prohibited degrees, I 
confess that I was sometimes a trifle annoyed by 
these misplaced condolences. But all this was 
early; in the century ; youth is no longer stationed 
at the prow nor pleasure at the helm of my bark, 
and the severest sarcasms only tickle. You may 
call me what names you like, therefore, when I 
confess to being fond of fishing. 

There is one great drawback to this taste : it 
cannot be enjoyed worthily without a great deal 
of trouble, and trouble spoils it. Other sports are 
social, and the preparation for them is in itself a 
pleasure. But you ought never to make up your 
mind to go a-fishing till the very morning. As for 
answering advertisements in the papers, buying a 
right to fish in certain streams, making a long 
journey, and staying for week after week at a dull 
country inn waiting for a favourable day, I had 
sooner by far go to JSTorway or North America at 
once. And so I content myself with catching 
dace or chub, which is hardly worth the name of 
fishing at all ; but still, " Better is a bleak without 
bother than a troublesome trout," is a motto which 
I present to posterity ; and there is a touch of 
proverbial philosophy about it, look you, not to 
mention the alliteration. 

As for fishing in the free trout streams of 
2 P 



England and Wales, it is a most unsatisfactory 
amusement. If you capture a trout at all, it is 
generally about the length of your middle finger. 
But on the lakes you may have some .sport if, on a 
windy day, when the surface of the water is rough 
with wavelets, you get a boat to the windward end 
of your lake and drift across it, throwing flies, 
tied by natives, and not bought in shops, as 
you go. I have taken nice half-pound trout 
two at a time in this way, at a very much fre- 
quented place in Wales. The difficulty is to get 
your boat. 

There is a stream in Westmoreland with very 
fewtroutin it,andthoseof minnow-like proportions, 
which is yet sometimes considered worth whipping 
by mischievous young tourists at one particular 
part, about half a mile in length. One bank for 
this distance is public ground, the other the pro- 
perty of a very cantankerous old gentleman, who 
lays doubtful claim to the barren fishery. The 
plan is to keep on the free side and flog away at 
the stream, not in hope of attracting trout, but of 
getting a rise out of the short-tempered one. The 
ruse never fails, for he spends his life in watchful- 
ness, and always hurries down to the waterside at 
once, and proceeds to throw hard words at the 
fisherman and stones at his line. I believe that, if 
you are an amateur of vituperation, you may learn 
many new and curious expletives and phrases by 
disputing his right in a calm and rational manner. 
Humanity dictates, however, that you should 
leave without informing him of the sole object 
of your visit ; for that, it is said, nearly brings on 
apoplexy. 

I am indebted to my friend Grains for the most 
eccentric day's fishing I ever enjoyed. Grains is a 
brewer, who determined some ten years ago to 
become a landed proprietor, and therefore pur- 
chased an estate in Suffolk ; and when, all being 
ready for his reception, he took possession with his 
charming and amiable family, I was invited to 
accompany them on a visit. 

It was a beautiful place. There was a home park, 
with tame deer in it ; acres and acres of wood, 
well stocked with pheasants and rabbits ; and a 
large pond, with swans, and an island, and a Chinese 
summer-house. 

As our introduction to all this took place in July, 
when there was no shooting ; as the family were as 
yet totally unacquainted with their neighbours, 
and archery parties, pic-nics, and other social 
gaieties were therefore in abeyance ; and as the 
hospitable Grains was anxious to amuse his guests, 
he naturally thought of a fishing excursion, and 
sent for his head keeper. 



250 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



" Can we have a day's fishing in the lake to- 
morrow, Williams 1 " he asked. 

" Certainly, sir," said Williams. 

" There is a boat, I see ; is it in good repair f " 

''Yes, sir." 

" That's all right. Then £ will give directions 
for all my tackle to be put in your hands, and you 
can get everything ready for us." 

" Very good, sir." 

" Get some worms, you know, and live bait, and 
spinning bait." 

" Yes, sir." 

At eleven o'clock on the following morning, the 
whole party, consisting of the jovial Grains, the 
kindly Mrs. Grains, their three charming daughters, 
Fanshawe of the Admiralty (a good fellow, but 
suffering from Alice — the second girl — on the 
brain) and myself, went down to the water-side. 
Grains and the keeper took boat, the latter rowing 
slowly about, the former throwing a dead dace, 
arrayed in a bristling panoply of hooks, in all 
directions, and drawing it in again ; the rest of us 
being entrusted with rods and lines with enormous 
floats, and live little fishes attached tenderly to 
tempt the jack. But the jack were superior to 



temptation. Lunch time came without any one 
having had a ghost of a run, so we desisted for a 
while, and pic-nicked. 

" No use trying for jack any more to-day, eh,, 
Williams 1 " said Mr. Grains. 

" No, sir." 

" Well, then, shall we try for a perch 1 " 

" If you please, sir." 

So fresh tackle was distributed, and we dispersed, 
taking up various coigns of vantage about the 
banks of the lake, Fanshawe and Alice Grains 
discovering a very likely spot, somewhat secluded, 
and hidden in a clump of trees. We baited with 
worms, we baited with minnows, but with no 
more success than we had had during the morn- 
ing ! The afternoon waned : Fanshawe, indeed, 
secured Alice, and Alice hooked Fanshawe, 
that summer's day, but no finny prey came to 
bank. 

" Come, Williams," said Mr. Grains, as we pre- 
pared to go back to the house, " are there any fish 
at all, of any description whatever, in this lake 1 " 

" I never heerd tell of any, sir," said the imper- 
turbable keeper. 

What Mr. Grains said, I did not hear. 



"THE STEAJSTGEST ADVENTURE." 



""ES, I could tell you plenty of stories like 
that ; I've seen a few adventures in my 
tune. 

" You have indeed ; but won't you give me a few 
more 1 It's early yet." 

We were sitting in the half -demolished summer- 
house of a little village inn on the coast of Brittany 
— in all probability the only wakeful inhabitants 
of the whole place, for sitting up tiU eleven p.m. 
is an enormity unknown in that primitive region. 
My companion's stern, swarthy face and tangled 
black beard, seen beneath the uncertain light of 
the rising moon, might have made him appear, to 
any person of unsteady nerves, rather an " un- 
canny " comrade for a midnight tete-a-tete ; but in 
spite of his repellant manner and miner-like rough- 
ness of speech, there was an indescribable some- 
thing in his tone and bearing which convinced me 
that, however he might have fallen, or been forced 
into his present nondescript way of life, he had (to 
use the common phrase) " been a gentleman once." 
This, however, was mere conjecture on my part; for 
in all the marvellous diorama of personal adventure 
which he had spread before me — riotous revels in 
Australian taverns, succeeded by days of deadly 
peril in Antarctic seas ; fights with pirates in the 
Straits of Malacca, following upon weeks of 



luxurious indolence amid the lotus - eaters of 
Brazil ; sledge-drives across Russian steppes, and 
bear-hunts in American forests — there was not the 
slightest hint at his early life or original station in 
society. It was at the close of a vivid description 
of a hurricane oif Cape Horn that my Ulysse.j 
paused in his narrative, and I now reiterated my 
request for another page from this eventful auto- 
biography. 

" What ! not tired yet ■? It's not every one that 
could stand hearing a fellow talk so long about 
himself." 

" Well," said I, " I'll only ask you for one more 
— tell me the strangest adventure you ever had." 

The wanderer started slightly, and then said in 
an altered voice : " You've made a better bargain 
than you think for ; I ^oill tell you the strangest 
of all, and let us see how you like it. I don't 
ask you to believe it, because I know that 
when you put these sort of things into books 
people laugh, and talk of Baron Munchausen and 
all that. I've read the Baron," he went on, 
noticing my look of surprise, " and many another 
book that you'd never give me credit for ; but in a 
book this story I am going to tell you would be im- 
possible ; and it 's just becmise it seems impossible 
that it is true."" 



'THE STRANGEST ADVENTURE." 



251 



" You remember how tliose two fellows robbed 
my tent, and bow I fired all tlie six barrels of my 
revolver into them 1 Well, it was just after that 
job that I shifted my tent away from the rest, 
thinking I'd be more comfortable by myself for a 
bit. You'll say this was rather venturesome, after 
I'd been robbed once already ; but then, you see, 
these beauties that I fired at thought they'd fairly 
■cleaned me out. Nobody knew that I'd got a lot 
more buried under a big gum-tree some two 
hundred yards off ; so the whole camp thought I 
was dry, and you may be sm-e I did not undeceive 
them. Well, I moved my tent up to the tree 
where the gold was, and there I stayed ; but I 
still stuck to my digging, to make up for what I'd 
lost. I got a middling lot of dust every day, but 
I took care to let nobody see more of it than I 
could help ; so folks got to think I was down on 
my luck, and left off minding about me at alL 

" One night I'd been working pretty late, and 
got chilled right through ; and, though I rolled 
my blanket well round me after turning into my 
hammock, I couldn't get warm anyhow ; and so I 
shivered away till I fell asleep. Then I fell to 
dreaming that I was in a trance, like some man 
I once read about in America, and that they 
thought me dead, and were going to bury me. I 
tried my hardest to move, or scream out, or some- 
thing, but no good ; and I heard the coffin-lid slap 
to, and the first spadeful of earth faU on it, and 
then I awoke. 

" It was a fine bright morning, and through the 
opening of the tent I could see the sun shining, and 
hear the picks and cradles getting to work as 
usual. But my dream wasn't all fancy, for I felt 
as if I were bound down, and couldn't move an 
inch ; and yet it wasn't quite that either — it was 
more as if I had no substance left, but was all air 
and shadow. If ever a living man felt like a 
ghost, I did then. 

" Well, I didn't think of being frightened just at 
iirst ; I felt more put out and foolish, like a man 
who's had a tumble, or got splashed all over by a 
cart. It seemed so queer for a great strong fellow 
like me, to be laid by the heels that way, and at 
first the thought of it almost made me laugh ; so 
there I lay like a log for ever so long, listening to 
all the noises from the camp, till at last (about 
noon it must have been, by the sun) I began to 
feel hungry, and commenced looking very hard at 
my ' damper ' and cold mutton, which lay upon a 
log t' other side of the tent. ' Well,' thought I, 
'it's a queer thing for a man to be starved this 
way, mth food before his eyes 1 ' But the moment 
I thought it, something cold seemed to clutch my 
heart and squeeze it all together. I tried to put it 
away by saying to myself, ' This'U go ofi" soon— of 
course it will ;' but at that minute it flashed across 
me, as if some one had written it in letters of fire 



all over the place, ' And supposing it doesn't go off 

— WHAT THEN ?' 

" It was then I began to feel frightened for the 
first time. I turned sick all at once, as if I were 
going to die, and likely enough I may have fainted, 
for the next thing I remember, there was a great 
silence all over the camp ; and by that I knew that 
the men were having their dinner, and that it 
must be late in the afternoon. As night came on, 
I began to feel very bad every way. So long as 
the sun was shining, and the sound of the picking 
and shovelling went on, the light, and the noise, 
and the feeling of having lots of people close to 
me, kept me up a bit ; but when the sounds died 
away little by little, and the darkness came all 
round as if it were locking me in, I felt as cast- 
do'mi and helpless as a child lost in a great town. 
However, my hunger made me savage-like, and 
that held me up ; for so long as there's strength 
enough for anger in a man, he's got a chance ; it's 
when he can't feel savage that his heart's broken. 
Only I kept always wishing that something would 
break the silence : and at last something did, with 
a vengeance, for a lot of the horrible dingoes 
commenced howling. And so they kept on, and 
worked me up till I felt as if I'd give anything to 
have just one blow at them, no matter what came 
after ; for what with the hunger, and the lying 
still so long, and the howling of these brutes, I'd 
got so mad, that I'd have liked to kill somethiiig, no 
matter what it was. And so the night wore away 
— a dreary night for me ! " 

While he was speaking, the moon had become 
gradually obscured, and we were wrapped in a 
shado"wy dimness that harmonised well with the 
gloomy recital, to which the deepening sombreness 
of his tone lent additional horror. 

" The sun rose at last, but it brought no bright 
morning hope with it ; only the same weary help- 
lessness, which seemed as if it had lasted for days 
and days — for I had lost all count of time. When 
the noise of the diggings began again, I almost 
wislied it would leave off, much as I had ■wished 
for it before ; for it sent a kind of horror through 
me to think of the hundreds of men so near, any 
one of whom would have run like lightning to help 
me, if he'd only known of the scrape I was in — 
while I lay dumb and dying close by. Ay, dying! 
it was no use shamming hopeful any longer ; for 
now I began to feel a gnawing and tugging in my 
inside, as if the teeth of a wolf were tearing it ; 
and I knew what that meant, for I'd felt it before, 
only not so bad. I wouldn't have minded so much 
if I could only have screamed, or flung myself 
about, or anything to show what I felt ; but to lie 
there stock-still and speechless, it was horrible." 

A shudder, which I could see in the uncertain 
light, shook .his strong frame as he proceeded. 

"As the sun grew hotter, the flies began to 



252 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



swarm ; and as I watched them, it struck me all 
of a sudden, what a way I should be in, supposing 
they attacked me ; for, as I was then, they might 
have sucked every drop of my blood before I 
could have stirred a finger. I knew something of 
what Austi'alian bush-flies could do, for I'd once 
stumbled on the body of a shepherd who had 
been tied to a tree by the bushrangers, and left. 
However, luckily for me, there was something else 
in the tent that tempted them more, and that was 
the food I'd left lying on the log. In a second they 
were down on it : all the meat turned black at 
once, as if with a shower of soot, and their buzzing 
was like the wind blowing through a row of wires. 
You'd laugh at me, stranger, if I were to tell you 



' And never a man and never a beast 

They met on their desolate way ; 
But the bleaching bones in the hungry sand 

Said all that a tongue could say.' 

And so it kept going over and over, till at last I 
fairly went off— half slept and half fainted. 

" It was late when I awoke, and I can't tell yoa 
how I felt at seeing the sun setting again. As the 
light faded, I felt as if my life was going out along 
with it, and when it dipped below the horizon I 
was ready to start up and stretch out my arms and 
hold it back, if I'd had the strength. And such a 
night as that second night was, good Heaven ! 
There's a verse somewhere in the Bible that 
speaks of ' a horror of great darkness ;' I learned 




' Looking right down into hit face.' 



how savage that sight made me ; for of course you'll 
say I ought to have been mighty glad to get off so 
cheap ; but, oh ! to see those flies gorging them- 
selves before my eyes, while I, a man, lay starving ! 
I tell you, all that I felt before was nothing to it ! 
" Towards afternoon, there began a kind of 
whispering and humming in my ears, getting louder 
bit by bit. It wasn't the flies, for they were all 
gone ; it was what comes to one on the second or 
third day of starving to death, and I knew it. 
Some of my mates that were starved up country 
used to keep putting their hands to their ears for 
a while before they died, saying they heard some- 
thing whispering to them. It got stronger and 
stronger, till the sound seemed to shape itself into 
an old song that a man I was with in Brazil kept 
crooning over just before he died. The song was 
all about a party going across the desert to look for 
some men that were lost ; but the verse that rang 
in my head then was this : 



it at school, but I never knew what it really meant 
till then. This time there was no howling of dingoes, 
no noise of any sort ; all was deadly still, as if tha 
world itself, with all that lived and breathed in it,, 
were dead, and I alone kept living— living on. I 
suppose I must have been getting light-headed 
with hunger and weakness, for I began to fancy all 
sorts of queer things. First I thought I was naUed 
down in a cofSn, and that if I could only move, or 
scream, or even speak, the lid would fly open ; but 
I couldn't Then it seemed as if I were at the 
bottom of the sea, and the weight of water above 
pressed me down till I could liardly breathe. All 
at once I was startled out of my fancies by a sound 
close to the tent, the like of which I never heard 
before or since— a low moaning cry, that sounded 
like 'All alone ! all alone !' over and over again. 
I can't tell to this day whether I really heard it, or 
only fancied it ; but at the time it gave me such a 
horror that I nearly went mad. 



PHCEBE'S SUITOK. 



253 



" Tiie third morning came, and found me nearly 
at my last. The gnawing pain was gone, and in- 
stead of it had come a pleasant drowsiness, like 
what a man feels when he falls down to sleep in 
the snow. All the morning I lay in a kind of 
dream, thinking of nothing, fearing nothing— as 
quiet as a child at its mother's breast ; till all at 
once I saw something that roused me in good 
earnest — a black shining thing, like a long strip of 
velvet, coming gliding into the tent. I knew it 
directly for one of the deadliest snakes in Australia. 
The next moment I heard the rustle of its coils up 
the tent pole to which my hammock was slung, and 
then I saw its flat head and black beady eyes 
hanging over me, and looking right down into my 
face to see if I were dead or not. I suppose it 
thought I was, for the next minute it slid down 
over my face, and to and fro along the hammock, 
till at last it went to the other pole, and there it 
glided off, and I saw no more of it. Anybody 
watching me then would have called me a brave 
fellow ; but I daresay it's not the first time that a 
man has been thought brave because he couldn't 
run away. 

" I don't know how long it was after that — it 
may have been an hour, or a day, or a week, for 
all I could tell — that a shadow fell across my face, 
and I heard a voice calling out, ' Holloa, mate ! can 
you give us a firestiok 1 I've let my fire out ! ' 
With the sound of that voice all my love of life 



came back again, and I gathered up my strength to 
try and speak. 

" Seeing me lying there so white and stiU, the 
fellow must have thought me dead ; and for a 
moment — the bitterest moment I ever had — I 
thought he was going to turn and go out again ; 
but, although I couldn't speak, I managed just to 
move my eyelids, and he saw it. He said nothing, 
but raised my head on his arm and took out his 
flask to pour some rum into my mouth ; and then 
I knew that I was saved, and with the shock of 
the reaction I fainted in right earnest." 

Here my strange companion suddenly ceased, 
and, rising from his chair, said to me, " You've 
had your story, stranger, and now I'm going to bid 
you good night ; for I haven't spoke of this busi- 
ness since it befell, and it rather upsets me thinking 
of it.. You tell me you 're oif early to-morrow 
morning, so it's a hundred to one if we ever meet 
again ; but in any case I wish you success in your 
travels, and may you end better than / have 
done !" 

Then grasping my hand with a force that made 
it tingle to the wrist, he departed. 

His parting words were true, for we have never 
met since that night ; but should these lines ever 
meet his eye, it may gratify him to know there is 
at least one man in the world who fully believes 
his story, even though it be (as he styled it) " the 
strangest adventure of all." 



PHCEBE'S SUITOE.* 

[From "Lady Audley's Secret." By Miss Braedox.] 




R. GEORGE TALBOYS.— Any 

^ person who has met this gentle- 



man since the 7th inst., or who can 
furnish any information respecting 
his movements subsequent to that 
date, will be liberallj' rewarded on communicating 
with A. Z., 14, Chancery Lane." 

Sir Michael Audley read the above advertise- 
ment in the second column of the Times, as he sat 
at breakfast with my lady and Alicia two or three 
days after Robert's retm-n to town. 

"Robert's friend has not yet been heard of, 
then," said the baronet, after reading the advertise- 
ment to his wife and daughter. 

" As for that," replied my lady, " I cannot help 
wondering who can be silly enough to advertise 
for him. The young man was evidently of a rest- 
less, roving disposition— a sort of Bamfylde Moore 
C'arew of modern hfe, whom no attraction could 
ever keep in one spot." 



Though the advertisement appeared several 
times, the party at the Court attached very little 
importance to Mr. Talboys' disappearance ; and 
after this one occasion his name was never again 
mentioned by either Sir Michael, my lady, or 
Alicia. 

Alicia Audley and her pretty step-mother were 
by no means any better friends after that quiet 
evening on which the young barrister had dined at 
the Court. 

" She is a vain, frivolous, heartless little coquette, " 
said Alicia, addressing herself to her Newfoundland 
dog, Csesar, who was the sole recipient of the young 
lady's confidences ; " she is a practised and con- 
summate flirt, Caesar ; and not contented with 
setting her yellow ringlets and her silly giggle at 
half the men in Essex, she must needs make that 
stupid cousin of mine dance attendance upon her. 
I haven't common patience with her." 

In iiroof of which last assertion Miss Alicia 



' By permission of Messrs. Jolm Mxswell and Co. 



254 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



Aiidley treated her step-mother with such very- 
palpable impertinence that Sir Michael felt himself 
called upon to remonstrate with his only daughter. 

" The poor little woman is very sensitive, you 
know, Alicia," the baronet said gravely, " and she 
feels your conduct most acutely." 

" I don't believe it a bit, papa," answered Alicia, 
stoutly. " You think her sensitive, because she has 
soft white hands and big blue eyes with long lashes, 
and all manner of aiFected, fantastical ways, which 
you stupid men call fascinating. Sensitive ! Why, 
I've seen her do cruel things with those slender 
white fingers, and laugh at the pain she inflicted. 
I'm very sorry, papa," she added, softened a little 
by her father's look of distress ; " though she has 
come between us, and robbed poor -Alicia of the 
love of that dear, generous heart, I wish I could 
like her for your sake ; but I can't, I can't, and no 
more can Caesar. She came up to him once with 
her red lips apart, and her little white teeth glisten- 
ing between them, and stroked his great head with 
her soft hand : but if I had not had hold of his 
collar, he would have flown at her throat and 
strangled her. She may bewitch every man in 
Essex, but she'll never make friends with my dog." 

" Your dog shall be shot," answered Sir Michael, 
angrily, " if his vicious temper ever endangers 
Lucy." 

The Newfoundland rolled his eyes slowly round 
in the direction of the speaker, as if he understood 
every word that had been said. Lady Audley 
happened to enter the room at this very moment, 
and the animal cowered down by the side of his 
mistress with a suppressed growl. There was 
something in the manner of the dog which was, 
if anything, more indicative of terror than of fury, 
incredible as it may appear that Cffisar should be 
frightened of so fragile a creature as Lucy Audley. 

Amiable as was my lady's nature, she could not 
live long at the Court without discovering Alicia's 
dislike of her. She never alluded to it but once ; 
then, shrugging her graceful white shoulders, she 
said with a sigh, — 

" It seems very hard that you cannot love me, 
Alicia, for I have never been used to make enemies ; 
but since it seems that it must be so, I cannot help 
it. If we cannot be friends, let us at least be 
neutral. You won't try to injure me 1 " 

" Injure you ! " exclaimed Alicia ; " how should 
I injure you ? " 

" You'll not try to deprive me of your father's 
affection 1 " 

" I may not be as amiable as you are, my lady, 
and I may not have the same sweet smiles and 
pretty words for every stranger I meet, but I am 
not capable of a contemptible meanness ; and even 
if I were, I think you are so secure of my father's 
love, that nothing but your own act will ever 
deprive you of it." 



" What a severe creature you are, Alicia ! " said 
my lady, making a little grimace. " I suppose you 
mean to infer by all that, that I'm deceitful. Why, 
I can't help smiling at people, and speaking prettily 
to them. I know I'm no better than the rest of 
the world, but I can't help itif I'm^jte«a?jto'. It's 
constitutional." 

Alicia having thus entirely .shut the door upon 
all intimacy between Lady Audley and herself, and 
Sir Michael being chiefly occupied in agricultural 
pursuits and manly sports, which kept him away 
from home, it was, perhaps, only natm-al that my 
lady, being of an eminently social disposition, 
should find herself thrown a good deal upon her 
white eye-lashed maid for society. 

Phoebe Marks was exactly the sort of girl who 
is generally promoted from the post of lady's-maid 
to that of companion. She had just sufiicient 
education to enable her to understand her mistress 
when Lucy chose to allow herself to run riot in a 
species of intellectual tarantella, in which her 
tongue went mad to the sound of its own rattle, 
as the Spanish dancer at the noise of his castanets. 
Phosbe knew enough of the French language to be 
able to dip into the yellow-paper-coyered novels 
which my lady ordered from the Burlington Arcade, 
and to discourse with her mistress upon the ques- 
tionable subjects of those romances. The likeness 
which the lady's-maid bore to Lucy Audley was, 
perhaps, a point of sympathy between the two 
women. It was not to be called a striking like- 
ness ; a stranger might have seen them both to- 
gether, and yet have failed to remark it. But there 
were certain dim and shadowy lights in which, 
meeting Phoebe Marks gliding softly through the 
dark oak passages of the Court, or under the 
shrouded avenues in the garden, you might have 
easily mistaken her for my lady. 

Sharp October winds were sweeping the leaves 
from the limes in the long avenue, and driving 
them in withered heaps with a ghostly rustling 
noise along the dry gravel walks. The old well 
must have been half choked up with the leaves 
that drifted about it, and whirled in eddying 
circles into its black, broken mouth. On the still 
bosom of the fish-pond the same withered leaves 
slowly rotted away, mixing theinselves with the 
tangled weeds that discoloured the surface of the 
water. All the gardeners Sir Michael could employ 
could not keep the impress of autumn's destroying 
hand from the grounds about the Court. 

" How I hate this desolate month ! " my lady 
said, as she walked about the garden, shivering 
beneath her sable mantle. " Everything dropping 
to ruin and decay, and the cold flicker of the sun 
lighting up the ugliness of the earth, as the glare 
of gas-lamps lights the wrinkles of an old woman. 
Shall I ever grow old, Plicebe 1 Will my hair ever 
drop oft' as the leaves are falling from those trees. 



PHCEBE'S SUITOR. 



255 



and leave me wan and bare like them 1 What is to 
become of me when I grow old 1 " 

She shivered at the thought of this more than 
she had done at the cold wintry breeze, and 
muffling herself closely in her fur, walked so fast 
that her maid had some difficulty in keeping up 
with her. 

" Do you remember, Phoebe," she said presently, 
relaxing her pace, " Do you remember that French 
story we read — the story of a beautiful woman who 
committed some crime — I forget what — in the 
zenith of her power and loveliness, when all Paris 
drank to her every night, and when the people ran 
away from the carriage of the king to flock about 
hers, and get a peep at her face 1 Do you remember 
how she kept the secret of what she had done for 
nearly half a century, spending her old age in her 
family chateau, beloved and honoured by all the 
province as an uncauonised saint and benefactress 
to the poor ; and how, when her hair was white, 
and her eyes almost blind with age, the secret was 
revealed through one of those strange accidents by 
which such secrets always are revealed in romances, 
and she was tried, found guilty, and condemned to 
be burned alive 'I The king who had worn her 
colours was dead and gone ; the court of which 
she had been the star had passed away ; powerful 
functionaries and great magistrates, who might 
perhaps have helped her, were mouldering in their 
graves ; brave young cavaliers, who would have 
died for her, had fallen upon distant battle-fields ; 
she had lived to see the age to which she had be- 
longedfade like a dream ; and she went to the stake, 
followed only by a few ignorant country people, 
who forgot all her bounties, and hooted at her for 
a wicked sorceress." 

" I don't-care for such dismal stories, my lady," 
said Phcebe Marks, with a shudder. " One has no 
need to read books to give one the horrors in this 
dull place." 

Lady Audley shrugged her shoulders, and laughed 
at her maid's candour. 

" It is a dull place, Phoebe," she said, " though 
it doesn't do to say so to my dear old husband. 
Though I am the wife of one of the most influen- 
tial men in the county, I don't know that I wasn't 
nearly as well off at Mr. Dawson's ; and yet it's 
something to wear sables that cost a hundred and 
sixty guineas, and to have a thousand pounds spent 
on the decoration of one's apartments." 

Treated as a companion by her mistress, in the 
receipt of the most liberal wages, and \^>ith per- 
([uisites such as perhaps no lady's-maid ever had 
before, it was strange that Phoebe Marks should 
■vvish to leave her situation ; yet it was not the less 
a fact that she was anxious to exchange all the 
advantages of Audley Court for the very unpro- 
mising prospect which awaited her as the wife of 
her cousin Luke. 



The young man had contrived in some manner 
to associate himself with the improved fortunes ot 
his sweetheart. He had never allowed Phcebe any 
peace till she obtained for him, by the aid of my 
lady's interference, a situation as under-groom at 
the Court. 

He never rode out with either Alicia or Sir 
Michael ; but on one of the few occasions upon 
which my lady mounted the pretty little grey 
thoroughbred reserved for her use, he contrived 
to attend her in her ride. He saw enough in the 
very first half hour they were out to discover that, 
graceful as Lucy Audley might look in her long 
blue cloth habit, she was a timid horsewoman, and 
utterly unable to manage the animal she rode. 

Lady Audley remonstrated with her maid upon 
her folly in wishing to marry the uncouth groom. 

The two women were seated together over the fire 
in my lady's dressing-room, the grey sky closing in 
upon the October afternoon, and the black tracery 
of ivy darkening the casement windows. 

" You surely are not in love with the awkward 
ugly creature, are you, Phoebe 1 " asked my lady, 
sharply. 

The girl was sitting on a low stool at her 
mistress's feet. She did not answer my lady's 
question immediately, but sat for some time look- 
ing vacantly into the red abyss in the hollow fire. 

Presently she said, rather as if she had been 
thinking aloud than answering Lucy's question, — 

" I don't think I can love him. We have been 
together from children, and I promised, when I was 
little better than fifteen, that I'd be his wife. I 
daren't break that promise now. There have been 
times when I've made up the very sentence I 
meant to say to him telling him that I couldn't 
keep my faith with him ; but the words have died 
upon my lips, and I've sat looking at him, with a 
choking sensation in my throat that wouldn't let 
me speak. I daren't refuse to marry him. I've 
often watched him as he has sat slicing away at a 
hedge-stake with his great clasp-knife, till I have 
thought that it is just such men as he who have 
decoyed their sweethearts into lonely places, and 
murdered them for being false to their word. 
When he was a boy he was always violent and re- 
vengeful. I saw him once take up that very knife 
in a quarrel with his mother. I tell you, my lady, 
I must marry him." 

"You silly girl, you shall do nothing of the 
kind ! " answered Lucy. " You think he'll murder 
you, do you 1 Do you think, then, if murder is in 
him, you would be any .safer as his wife 1 If you 
thwarted him or made him jealous ; if he wanted 
to marry another woman, or to get hold of some 
poor, pitiful bit of money of yours, couldn't he 
murder you then 1 I tell you, you shan't marry 
him, Phoebe. In the first place, I hate the man ; 
and in the nest place, I can't afford to part with 



256 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



you. We'll give him a few pounds and send him 
about his business." 

Phcebe Marks caught my lady's hands in hers, 
and clasped them convulsively. 

" My lady ! " she cried vehemently, " don't try to 
thwart me in this — don't ask me to thwart him. I 
tell you, I must marry him. You don't know what 
he is. It will be my ruin, and the ruin of others, 
if I break my word. I must marry him ! " 

" Very well, then, Phoebe," answered her mistress. 



" You are very good, my lady," Phcsbe answered: 
with a sigh. 

Lady Audley sat in the glow of fire-light and 
wax candles in the luxurious drawing-room ; the 
amber damask cushions of the sofa contrasting 
with her dark violet velvet dress, and her rippling 
hair falling about her neck in a golden haze. 
Everywhere around her were the evidences of 
wealth and splendour ; while, in strange contrast 
to all this, and to her own beauty, the awkward 




You'll make it a hundred, mt lady." [Drawn hy G. C. Rindley.) 



" I can't oppose you. There must be some secret 
at the bottom of all this." 

" There is, my lady," said the girl, with her face 
turned away from Lucy. 

" I shall be very sorry to lose you ; but I have 
promised to stand your friend in all things. What 
does your cousin mean to do for a living when you 
are married 1 " 

" He would like to take a public house." 

" Then he shall take a public house, and the 
sooner he drinks himself to death the better. Sir 
Michael dines at a bachelor's party at Major Mar- 
grave's this evening, and my step-daughter is away 
with her friends at the Grange. You can bring 
your cousin into the drawing-room after dinner, 
and I'll tell him what I mean to do far him." 



groom stood rubbing his bullet head as my lady 
explained to him what she meant to do for her 
confidential maid. Lucy's promises were very 
liberal, and she had expected that, uncouth as the 
man was, he would in his own rough manner have 
expressed his gratitude. 

To her surprise he stood staring at the floor 
without uttering a word in answer to her offer. 
Phcebe was standing close to his elbow, and seemed 
distressed at the man's rudeness. 

" Tell my lady how thankful you are, Luke," she 
said. 

"But I'm not so over and above thankful," 
answered her lover, savagely. " Fifty pound ain't 
much to start a public. You'll make it a hundred, 
my lady." 



ATTORNEY SNEAK 



257 



"I shall do nothing of the kind," said Lady 
Audley,her clear blueeyes flashing withindignation, 
" and I wonder at your impertinence in asking it." 

" Oh yes, you will though," answered Luke, with 
quiet insolence, that had a hidden meaning. 
" You'U make it a hundred, my lady. ' 

Lady Audley rose from her seat, looked the man 
steadfastly in the face till his determined gaze sank 



under hers : then walking straight up to her maid, 
she said in a high, piercing voice, peculiar to her in 
moments of intense agitation, " Phcebe Marks, you 
have told this man ! " 

The girl fell on her knees at my lady's feet. 

" Oh, forgive me, forgive me ! " she cried. " He 
forced it from me, or I would never, never have 
told!" 



ATTORNEY SNEAK. 

[By Egbert Buchanan.] 




Sftarp, like a tyrant ; timid, Wcc a slavs ; 
A iitth raan, with yellow, hloodless'cheeli ; 

UT execution in on 
Mrs. Hart— 
If people will be 
careless, let 
them smart ; 
Oh, hang her chil- 
dren ! just the 
common cry ! 
Am I to feed her 
family? Not! 
I'm tender- 
hearted, but I 
dare be just, — 
I never go beyond 
the law, I trust; 
I've work'd my way, plotted and starved and 

plann'd. 
Commenced without a penny in my hand, 
And never howl'd for help, or dealt in sham — 
No ! I'm a man of principle, I am. 

What's that you say? Oh father has been 
here? 
(")f course, you sent him packing ? Dear, oh dear ! 
When one has worked his weary way, like me. 
To comfort and respectability, 
Can pay his bills, and save a pound or two, 
And say his prayers on Sunday in a pew, 
Can look the laws of England in the face, 
'Tis hard, 'tis hard, 'tis shame, and 'tis disgrace. 
That one's own father — old and worn and gray — 
Should be the only hindrance in his way. 
Swore, did he? Very pretty! Threaten 'd? Oh! 
Demanded money ? You, of course, said " No ?" 
'Tis hard— my life will never be secure— 
He'll be my ruin some day, I am sure. 

I don't deny my origin was low — 
All the more credit to myself, you know : 
Mother (I never saw her) was a tramp, 
Father half tramp, half pedlar, and whole scamp, 



A snappish mingling oj the fool and hnave. 
Resulting in the hyhrid compound — Sneak. 

^Vho travell'd over England with a pack, 
And carried me about upon his back. 
Trudging from door to door, to feasts and fairs, 
Cheating the silly women with his wares. 
Stealing the farmers' ducks and hens for food, 
Pilfering odds and ends where'er he could, 
And resting in a city now and then. 
Till it became too hot, — and off again. 
Beat me ? No, he knew better. I confess 
He used me with a sort of tenderness ; 
But would have warp'd my nature into sin, 
Had I been weak, for lack of discipline. 
Why, even now, I shudder to the soul, 
To think how oft I ate the food he stole. 
And how I wore upon my back the things 
He won by cheats and lawless bargainings. 
Oh, he had feelings, that I freely say ; 
But vsdthout principle what good are they ? 
He swindled and he stole on every hand. 
And I was far too young to reprimand ; 
And, for the rest, why, he was circumspect. 
And might have been committed for neglect. 

Ah ! how I managed, under stars so ill, 
To thrive at all, to me is mystery still. 
In spite of father, though, I got along. 
And early learn'd to judge the right from 

wrong ; 
At roadsides, when we stopp'd to rest and feed. 
He gave me lessons how to write and read ; 
I got a snack of schooling here and there. 
And learn'd to sum by instinct, as it were. 
Then, latterly, when I was seventeen. 
All sorts of evil I had heard and seen ; 
Knew father's evil ways, bemoan 'd my fate, 
Long'd to be wealthy, virtuous, and great ; 
Swore with the fond ambition of a lad. 
To make good use of what poor gifts I had. 

At last, tired, sick, of wandering up and down, 
Hither I turn'd my thoughts, — ^to London town ; 



268 



GLEANINGS FROM FOFULAR AUTHORS. 



And finally, with little doubt or fear, 

Made up my mind to try my fortune here. 

Well, father stared at first, and shook his head ; 

But when he found I held to what I said, 

He clasp'd me tight, and hugg'd me to his heart, 

And begged and prayed that I would not depart ; 

Said I was all for whom he had to care, 

His only joy in trudging here and there ; 

Vow'd if I ever left him, he would die, — 

Then, last of all, of course, began to cry. 

You know how men of his position feel l 

Selfish, at best, even when it is real ! 

I tried to smooth him over, and, next day, 

I pack'd what things I had, and ran away. 

I need not tell you all my weary flight, 
To get along in life and do aright — 
How often people, when I sought a place, 
Still push'd my blessed father in my face ; 
Until, at last, when I was almost stark, 
Old Lawyer Hawk made me his under-clerk ; 
How from that moment, by avoiding wrong, 
Possessing principle, I got along ; 
Read for the law, plotted, and dreani'd and 

plann'd, 
Until — I reach'd the height on which I stand. 

'Twas hard, 'twas hard ! Just as my business 
grows. 
In father pops his miserable nose, 
Steps in, not sober, in a ragged dress, 
And worn tenfold with want and wickedness ; 
Calls me hard names because I wish'd to rise ; 
Here, in the office, like a baby cries ; 
Smothers my pride with shame and with disgrace, 
Till, red as fire, I coax'd him from the place. 
What could I do under so great a blow 1 
I gave him money, tried to make him go ; 
But ah ! he meant to rest, I plain could see, 
His ragged legs 'neath my mahogany ! 
No principle ! When I began complaining, 
How he would be my ruin by remaining, 
He turn'd upon me, white and wild, and swore. 
And would have hit m?, had I utter'd more. 

" Tommy," he dared to say, " you've done amiss ; 
I never thought to see you come to this. 
I would have stopp'd you early on the journey. 
If I had ever thought you'd grow attorney. 
Sucking the blood of people here in London ; 
But you have done it, and it can't be undone. 
And, Tommy, I will do my best to see 
You don't at all disgrace yourself and me." 

I rack'd my brains, I moan'd and tore my hair, 
Saw nothing left but ruin and despair ; 
Father at hand, why, all would deem me low: 
"Sneak's father? humph!" — the business would go. 
The labour of long years would come to nought ! 
At last I hit upon a happy thought : 



Why should not father, if he pleased to be, 

Be decent and respectable like me ? 

He would be glad and grateful, if a grain 

Of principle were settled in his brain. 

I made the offer, — proud he seemed and glad, — 

There rose a hope he'd change to good from bad, 

Though, " Tommy, 'tis a way of getting bread 

I never thought to come upon," he said ; 

And so I put him in the office here, 

A clerk at five-and-thirty pounds a year. 

I put it to you, could a man do more 'I 
1 felt no malice, did not close my door. 
But gave the chance to show if he was wise ■ 
He had the world before him, and could rise- 
Well, for a month or more, he play'd no tricks, 
Writ-drawing, copying, from nine to six. 
Not smart, of course, nor clever, like the rest. 
But trying, it appear'd, to do his best ; 
But by and by he changed — old fire broke out — 
He snapp'd when seniors order'd him about — 
Came late to office, tried to loaf and shirk — 
Would sit for precious hours before his work, 
And scarcely lift a pen, but sleepily stare 
Out through the window at the empty air. 
And watch the sunshine lying in the lane. 
Or the bluebottles buzzing on the pane. 
And look as sad and worn and grieved and 

strange 
As if he ne'er had had a chance to change ; 
Came one day staggering in a drunken fit ; 
Flatly refused one day to serve a writ. 
I talk'd, appeal'd, talked of my honest name, 
He stared, turn'd pale, swore loud, and out it came : 
He hated living with that monkey crew, 
Had tried his best and found it would not do ; 
He could not bear, forsooth, to watch the tears 
Of people with the Law about their ears. 
Would rather steal his meals from place to place. 
Than bring the sorrow to a poor man's face — 
In fact, you see, he hated all who pay, 
Or seek their moneys in the honest way ; 
Moreover, he preferr'd a roadside crust. 
To cleanly living with the good and just : 
Old, wild, and used to roaming up and down. 
He could not bear to stagnate in a town ; 
To stick in a dark office in a street. 
Was downright misery to a man with feet ; 
Serving the law was more than he could bear. 
Give him his pack, his freedom, and fresh air. 

Mark that ! how base, ungrateful, gross, and bad 
His want of principle had made him mad. 
I gave him money, sent him off by train. 
And trusted ne'er to see his face again. 

But he came back. Of course. Look'd wan and 
ill. 
More ragged and disreputable stilL 



THE FOX'S TALE. 



259 



Despairing, groaning, wretchedest of men, 

I granted him anotlier trial then. 

Still the old story — the same vacant stare 

Out through the window at the empty air, 

More watching of the sunshine in the lane, 

And the bluebottles buzzing on the pane, 

Then more of tipsvness and drunken dizziness, 

And rage at things done in the way of business. 

I saw the very office servants sneer, 

And I determined to be more severe. 

At last, one winter's morn, I went to him, 

And found him sitting, melancholy, grim, 

Spr&wling like any schoolboy on his seat, 

And scratching drawings on a foolscap sheet ; 

Here, an old hag, with half-a-dozen chits, 

Lash'd with a cat-o'-nine tails, labell'd " Writs ; " 

There, a young rascal, ragged as a daw. 

Drinking a cup of poison, labell'd " Law ; " 

Elsewhere, the Devil, looking o'er a pile 

Of old indictments with a crafty smile. 

And sticking lawyers on an office file ; 

And in a corner, wretchedly devised, 

A shape in black, that kick'd and agonis'd. 

Strung by a pauper to a gallows great. 

And underneath it written, " Tommie's Fate ! " 

I touch'd his arm, conducted him aside, 

Produced a bunch of documents, and cried : 

" Now, father, no more nonsense ! You must be 

No more a plague and a disgrace to me — 

If you won't work like others, you must quit ; 

See, here are two subpoenas, there a writ, 

Serve these on Such-a-one and So-and-So. 



Be sharp, and mind your conduct, or you go." 

He never said a word, but with a glare 

All round him, drew his thin hand through his 

hair, 
Turn'd white, and took the papers sOently, 
Put on his hat, and peep'd again at me. 
Then quietly, not like a man in ire. 
Placed all the precious papers on the fire ! 
And turning quickly, crying with a shout, 
" You, and all documents, be ! " went out 

He came again ! Ay, after wandering o'er 
The country as of old, he came once more. 
I gave him money, off he went ; and then, 
After a little year, he came again ; 
Ay, came, and came, still ragged, bad, and po( r, 
And he will be my ruin, I am sure. 
He tells the same, old tale from year to year. 
How to his heart I ever will be dear ; 
Or oft into a fit of passion flies, 
Calls me ungrateful and unkind, — then cries. 
Raves of his tenderness and suffering. 
And mother's too — and all that sort of thing : 
He haunts me like a goblin pale and grim. 
And— to be candid — I'm afraid of him ; 
For, ah ! all now is hopeless, to my cost, — 
Through want of principle the man is lost. 

— That's Badger, is it ? He must go to Vere, 
The Bank of England clerk. The writ is here. 
Say, for his children's sake we will relent, 
If he'll renew at thirty -five per cent. 



THE FOX'S TALE. 

["From "Eory O'More." By Samuel Lover."] 




i^ORY went to chapel ; and thoughts of 
the expedition and hopes for his 
country mingled with his devotions, 
and a prayer for the safety of the 
friend from whom he had just parted 
rose sincerely from his heart. Mass being over, he 
returned to the Black Bull, where Finnegan was 
serving his customers. 

" I am come to ax you for something, Larry," 
said Rory. " I jist came to see if you're done with 
the crowbar I lint you some time agon, as I'm in 
want of it myself to quarry some stones to- 
morrow." 

" Yis ; there it is, standin' over in the corner, 
beyant the hob in the kitchen forninst you : I'm 
done with it — many thanks to you ! " 

" Why, thin, what would you want wid a crowbar, 
Finnegan 1 " said one of his customers. 



" Oh, it's the misthiss you should ax about 
that ! " said Rory. 

" Why, is it for batin' her he got it 1 " 

" No," said Finnegan. " It's a flail I have for 
that." 

" It's Misthiss Finnegan that wants it," said 
Rory : " she makes the punch so sthrong, that she 
bent all her spoons sthrivin' to stir it ; and so she 
borrowed the crowbar." 

" Long life to you, Rory, your sowl ! " said 
Finnegan, who relished this indirect compliment 
to the character of his establishment. " Divil be 
from me, but you won't lave the house this day 
without takin' a tumbler with the misthiss, afther 
that ! and she shall mix it herself for you, and with 
the a-ou<har, my boy ! " 

Rory would not refuse the hospitality offered;" 
so. entering the kitchen, he sat by the flre ; and 



260 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAE AUTHORS. 



Mrs. Finiiegan endeavoured to support the 
character he had given her, by brewing one of her 
best, and she returned to the kitchen in smiles to 
pr3sent to Rory a " screeching " tumbler of punch. 

While he was sitting there, chatting and_sipping 
his beverage, a storm began to threaten, and soon 
bui'st in all its violence over the village. Rory, 
remembering he had some miles to walk before he 
should reach his home, went to the door. As he 
looked up the street, Sorubbs was riding down the 
road at a furious pace to get under shelter ; but before 
reaching the Black Bull, a vivid iiash of lightning 
made his horse start violently, and the suddenness 
of the action brought horse and rider to the 
ground. 

Scrubbs, who was only stunned by the fall, made 
an effort to rise ; and Rory in a moment ran to his 
assistance, and was by his side. 

" You're not kilt 1 " said Rory. 

"No," said Scrubbs. 

After a few minutes the collector was quite re- 
covered, having escaped with a few bruises : and 
his own safety left him at liberty to lament over the 
mishap of his steed, to whose stable he repaired, 
exclaiming, as he went — 

" It's very unfortunate ! " 

" Faith, it is unfortunate," said Finnegan, " that 
your neck wasn't bruk ! I'd like to dhrink at your 
wake." 

There was not one voice to express sorrow for his 
accident, nor congratulation upon his escape, so 
disliked had he made himself in the country ; and 
but for Rory O'More, whose generous heart was 
open to the distress even of a foe, he would not 
have had a single being to do him a service. 

When he found Rory determined to go, and that 
his way was homewards, he expressed a desire to 
accompany him, for their road lay together, and it 
was a matter of great importance to the collector 
to have a companion ; for to travel the country 
alone on foot was what he dreaded too much to 
venture vrpon, and considered even more hazardous 
than remaining where he was. 

A few days before, he would not have chosen 
, Rory for a companion ; but the circumstances of 
his release by the Colonel had mystified him, and 
made him imagine that perhaps Rory was not the 
dangerous .person he had taken him for. 

At all events, under existing circumstances, 
he could not but be glad of his convoy : and de- 
clared himself ready to face the road on foot with 
our hero. 

Thanking Finnegan, whose care of his horse's 
shoulder he, urged, he and Rory said " Good-bye ! " 
to the landlord and his wife, and not forgetting the 
crowbar, they sallied forth from the snug shelter 
of the warm hostel to buffet the chilling storm 
which still raged with unmitigated fury. 

They proceeded in silence until they had passed 



the skirts of the village ; when Rory turning from • 
the high road, struck into a path through the fields 
that lay beside it. 

They were drawing near the walls of the Folly, 
when he suddenly stopped and said to Scrubbs, 
" Didn't you hear a shout 1 " 

"Where 1 " said the collector, getting as close to 
him as he could. 

" I thought I heard a halloo," said Rory ; 
'• listen ! " 

The shout proceeded from the grated window of 
the vault where De Welskein and his companions 
were imprisoned by a landslip occasioned by the 
thunderstorm which had overthrown Scrubbs. 
They, seeing two men in the valley, had raised 
their combined voices in one wild chorus of 
despair, to attract their attention ; and observing 
the successful result of their first effort, they again 
assayed to arrest their observation in the same 
manner ; and when the men paused the second 
time, De Welskein took his handkerchief from his 
neck, and waving it through the bars of his dungeon 
as a further means of attracting notice, a third 
tremendous yell issued from the vault which the 
torrent was inundating. 

" Look, look ; " said Rory, pointing to the hand- 
kerchief ; '' some one is calling for help there ! " 

With these words Rory ran towards the Folly ; 
and Scrubbs followed because he was afraid to 
remain alone. On approaching sufficiently close to 
recognise persons, the wonder was mutual between 
those within and those without the vault at the 
rencounter. 

" Murdher ! is it you, Mr. Devilskin ! " said Rory. 
" Why, thin, what brought you there at all 1 " 

It would be vain to attemjjt to describe the con- 
fused and almost unintelligible conversation that 
ensued ; it was rather a volley of vociferation on 
both sides — the Frenchman shouting " Ouvrez 
vite I " while the other prisoners were exclaiming, 
" Rory, make haste, or we'll be dhrownded by the 
rising of the water ! " 

" Wait a minit, and I'll settle the business for 
you," said Rory. " Sure and wasn't it the hoighth o' 
good luck I happened to have the crowbar with 
me !" 

As he spoke he put the powerful implement be- 
tween the bars of the grated window, and wrenched 
the rusted irons from their .sockets ; and then, 
giving a hand to De Welskein, he assisted him in 
his egress through the newly-made opening ; and 
in a few seconds the whole party, so lately incar- 
cerated in a dangerous dungeon, were liberated 
even by the very man against whose safety one of 
their party, Regan, endeavoured to direct their 
vengeance ! 

And now a terrible example was given of the 
facility with which past mercies are forgotten, and 
of the hardness of the human heart when brutalised 



THE FOX'S TALE 



261 



by vice. These very men, rescued from a perilous 
position, and perhaps a horrible death, the moment 
they were released, gave v/ay to their vengeful 
feelings, and thought not of extending to a fellow- 
creature the mercy that Heaven had shown to- 
wards them. 

Began was the first to notice, with triumph, the 
presence of Scrubbs, and he Dointed it out to 



There was a shout of "No !" from the group. 
The trembling collector laid hold of Rory. 

" Don't grip me that way, or I can't fight ! " said 
Rory : "mind yourself, you'd betther." 

He threw himself into a posture of defence, and, 
with the weapon he held, he was a formidablp 
adversary. 

" Didn't I tell yiz all he was a thraitor ! " said 




EOBY'a Threat. {Drawn hy W. Ralsi on.) 



the party with an exclamation of blasphemous re- 
joicing. 

" We're in luck afther all ; for there he is — the 
very chap we are hungerin' for ! " 

He pointed to Scrubbs as he spoke ; and he, 
whose fears were sufficiently awake before, now 
pressed close beside Rory, who could feel his tremor 
as he leaned for support against him. 

" Why, what do you want with him 1 " said Rory. 

" We jist want to take a loan of him," said Regan, 
who advanced. 

" Boys ! " cried Rory in an appealing tone, " I 
saved 7/on.r lives five minutes ago, and all I ask is 
that you'll let us go quietly out o' this." 



Eegan. " If he wasn't, would he do what he's 
doin' 1 — Do you believe me now ? " 

At that moment, and under the peculiar circum- 
stances, joined to foregone suspicions of Rory's 
fidelity, the words of Regan were like sparks on 
gunpowder : there was a shout from the group and 
a rush on Rory, who felled two of his assailants to 
the earth as they advanced upon him, while the 
wretched Scrubbs struck not a blow in his own 
defence. While Rory was keeping up an unequal 
fight against numbers, his vindictive enemy, Shan 
Dhu, came behind him, and giving him a severe 
blow under the ear, for the first time had the 
satisfaction of seeing Rorj stagger beneath his 



262 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



stroke. In a moment Rory was overpowered and 
secured ; and he and Sorubbs, the latter of whom 
prayed in the most abject manner for mercy, were 
dragged within the walls of the Folly. 

Scrubbs they stowed away in a dark corner, 
under watch ; but Rory, thanks to a spark of 
gratitude in the Frenchman, was allowed to sit up 
among them in a high part of the cavern, which 
they recklessly entered again to avoid the rain. 

" Me not know I do the right to treat you to de 
caufee," said De Welskein, " you are one great rog, 
Rory ! " 

" Here's to the pair of us, then," returned the 
Irishman, drinking ; " and if you're ever hanged for 
being an honest man it will be a miirdher ! " 

" Tank you, but you are how cunning ! like dat 
little animal that runs along wiz a brosh." 

" Sweeps, is it ? " inquired O'More innocently. 

" No, no, no ! le reynard — ah, ze faux ! " 

" Oh, is it the fox? have yiz got foxes in France T 

" Sartinly," answered the smuggler. " Faux ver' 
moshe in my contree." 

" I'll howld you a quart o' porther that they're 
not to compare with the Irish foxes in regard o' 
cunnin'," observed Rory. 

" Ver' moshe cunning, French faux." 

" Why, an Irish fox would sthrip a French fox 
of his skin, and sell it before his face, and th'other 
not know of it," said Rory. 

" Bah, bah, bah ! " 

" Tut, man, you don't know what divils thim 
Irish foxes is. Did you ever hear of the fox of 
Ballybothrum 1 " went on the peasant, who noticed 
some kegs that were labelled, " Keep from fire — 
powder," and conceived a bold idea. 

" Ballabot — bosh — vat you call him ? " 

" Ballybothrum. Oh, that was the fox in airnest ! 
Divil such a fox ever was before nor sence, as that 
same fox ; and the thing I'm going to tell you 
happened to a relation of my own — one Mickee 
Rooney — that was a ranger in the sarvice of the 
Lord Knows- who." 

The men had gathered round grinning ; and 
Pierre said — 

" Don't heed him. Captain, he's making game of 
you." 

" Hould your whist," cried Rory, " do you think 
Munseer doesn't know a fox is game as well as 
you ? well, as I was tellin' you, Munseer, the ranger 
lived in a small taste of a cabin, beside the wood, 
all alone by himself, barrin' the dogs that was his 
companions." 

" De daugs 1 " 

" Yis ; himsilf and the dogs were the only 
Christians in the place ; and one night when he 
kem home, wet and wairy wid the day's sport, he 
sot down beside the fire, just as we're sittin' here, 
and begun smoking his pipe to warm himself, and 
when he tuk an air o' the fire he thought he'd go 



to bed ; not to sleep you parsaive, but to rest him- 
self, like. So he took off his clothes, and hung 
them to dhry forninst the fire, and then he went to 
bed ; and an illigant bed it was— the finest shaft 
o' sthraw you ever seen, lyin' over in the corner, as 
it might be there," pointing to several trusses just 
out of harm's way from the fire, at which Regan 
and his especial mates were sulkily drying their 
clothes. " And as he was lyin' in bed, thinking o' 
nothin' at all, and divartin' himself with lookin' at 
the smoke curlin' up out o' the fire, what should he 
see but the door open, and a fox march into the 
place just as bowld as if the house was his own ; 
an' he went over and sot down on his hunkers 
forninst the fire, and begun to warm his hands like 
a Christian. It's truth I'm tellin' you." 

" Staup, sair, staup ! ver vas de daugs all dis 
time 1 " 

" The dogs ! " responded Rory. " Oh, the dogs is 
if? Oh, I didn't tell you that ! Oh, sure the dogs 
was runnin' about the wood at the time, ketchin' 
rabbits ; for the fox was listenin', you see, outside 
the door, and heer'd the ranger tell the dogs to go 
and ketch him a brace o' rabbits for his supper ; 
for I go bail, if the fox didn't know the dogs was 
out o' the place the divil a toe he'd put inside the 
ranger's house. And that shows you the cunnin' o' 
the baste. Well, as he was sittin' at the fire, what 
do you think, but he tuk the ranger's pipe off the 
hob, an' lights it in the fire, and begins to smoke as 
nath'ral as any other man you ever seen." 

" Smoke ! de faux smoke "! " exclaimed De Wel- 
skein, amid the general laughter. 

" Oh, yis ; all the Irish foxes smoke when they 
can get bakky ; and they're mighty fond o' ' short- 
cut ' when the dogs is afther them ! well, Munseer, 
the ranger could hardly keep his timper at all, 
when he seen the baste smokin' his pipe, and with 
that says he, ' It's fire and smoke of another kind 
I'll give you, my buck,' says he, takin' up his gun 
to shoot him ; but the fox had put the gun into a 
pail o' wather, and, of course, the divil a fire the 
gun would fire for the ranger. And so the fox 
put his finger on his nose just that-a-way, and 
laughed at him. ' Wow ; wow ! ' says the fox put- 
tin' out his hand and takin' up the newspaper to 
read." 

" De newspaper 1 no, no, my boy," interrupted 
the captain, shaking his head. 

" Why, man alive," retorted Rory logically, " how 
would the fox know where the hounds was to meet 
next mornin' if he didn't read the paper? — sure 
that shows you the cunnin' o' the baste ! Well, with 
that the ranger puts his fingers to his mouth, and 
gives a blast of a fwistle you'd hear a mile off, for 
to call the dogs. ' Oh ! is it for fwistlin' you are," 
says the fox, ' then it is time for me to lave the 
place,' says he, ' for 'twould not be good for my 
health to be here when the dogs come back.' So 



THE HOMES OF THE POOR. 



263 



he lays down the pipe in the hob ; but before he 
did, I must tell you he wiped it with the end of his 
tail — for he was a dacent baste, and used his tail as 
nath'ral as a Christian would use the sleeve of his 
coat- and then he was going to start; but the 
ranger seein' that he was goin' to escape, jumps 
out o' the bed and gets betune him and the door, 
'and the divil a start you'll start,' says he,' till the 
dogs comes back, you red rascal, and I'll have your 
head in my fist before long,' says he, ' and that's 
worth a pound to me. ' I'll hould you a quart of 
porther,' says the fox, 'I'll make you lave that.' 
' Divil a lave,' says the ranger. ' Wow, wow ! ' says 
the fox, ' I'm a match for you yet ;' and what do 
-you think, but he whips the ranger's breeches off 
the back o' the chair, and throws them into the 
fire, and he knew the divil another pair the ranger 
had to his back." 

" Ha, ha, ha," laughed the hsteners. 

" ' That'll make you start,' says the fox. ' Divil 
a start,' says the ranger; 'my breeches is worth 



half-a -crown, and your head's worth a pound, so I'LL 
make seventeen and sixpence by the exchange.' 
' Well, you are the stupidest vagabone I ever met,' 
says the fox, and ' I'll make you sensible at last, 
that you must let me go, for I'll burn you out of 
house and home,' says he, and with that, he takes 
up the red-hot poker," went on O'More, reaching 
between Pierre and the captain, and seizing the 
glowing " loggerhead " iron, a match for the crow- 
bar of which he had been deprived. " And with 
that he ran to the ranger's bed (as it might be 
this same straw)," continued he, as all shrank back 
from him, and he rushed to the kegs on the 
straw, and staved in the head of one with his heel 
" And," says he— (here Rory changed his laughing 
tone to one of serious import, while he lowered the 
red-hot poker's head into the glistening black 
grains), " by the hovvly poker, av' yiz don't throw 
down your arms, ivery man Jack o' yiz, I'll touch up 
the sulpher and blow yiz from here to the last day 
of the new year ! " 



THE HOMES OF THE POOR. 

[By Mrs. Henry Wood.] 




; ICHARD SALE'S history is but that 
of many. He had been attracted to 
London from his country home by 
greater wages earned there, and for 
some time he did well. But misfor- 
tune came to him in the shape of 
rheumatic fever ; it lasted long enough to 
sell him up, and turn him out with his wife 
and children, when he was still too weak to work. 
He never recovered position — if that word may be 
applied to a daily labourer. The fingers of one hand 
were considerably weakened, the joints stiff, and for 
four years he had to get a living how he could, at 
odd jobs ; at buying things to sell again; or, as he 
had been doing to-day, walking out miles to get up 
roots, or cress ; keeping his honesty always, and 
self-denying to the end. 

You never saw or dreamed of such a place as 
the one he finally turned into. It was not fit for 
human beings to dwell in. A pig-sty inhabited by 
respectable pigs would have been sweet in com- 
parison. They called it by distinction a court. A 
court ! On either side of an alley ten feet wide, 
which had no thoroughfare, was a block of build- 
ings : old, overhanging, tumble-down dwellings. 
They had no outlet behind on either side, being 
built against the backs of other houses : and two 
women, hanging out their linen to dry on cords 
stretched across from roof to roof, could lean from 
the windows and shake hands with each other. The 



fresh air of heaven, given us so freely by God, 
could not penetrate to these miserable houses. A 
whole colony of people lived in them, how many in 
a room — at least in some of the rooms — it would be 
regarded as a libel to say. The stairs were scarcely 
safe, the floors were rotten ; dirt and sickness 
prevailed. As to cleaning the places — water was 
a great deal too scarce for that. 

Richard Sale went nearly to the bottom of this 
court, turned into a doorway on the left, and 
thence into a room on the right. A small, low 
room. Standing in its midst he could have touched 
the side walls, and his head narrowly escaped 
brushing the ceiling. What colour the walls had 
originally been, nobody could tell ; the window, 
facing the courtyard, had most of its panes broken, 
and pasted over with newspaper. On the high 
mantel-piece, opposite the door, was a lighted 
candle stuck in a gingerbeer-bottle. The man 
looked at it as he went in. 

" Halloa, Charley, got a light ] " he exclaimed in 
a kind tone. 

"Bridget Kelly came in and lighted it, da," 
replied a weak yoimg voice from the floor. " I've 
been ill, da." 

He lay on a mattress against the wall opposite 
the window, covered with a grey woollen blanket — 
a boy nine years old. In frame he looked younger ; 
in face considerably older, for it wore that preter- 
natural expression of intelligence sometimes seen 



264 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



in delicate cliildren of any station, often in tlie 
extreme poor. It was a fair, meek little face ; and 
something in the blue eyes, bright to-night, and in 
the falling ilaxen hair, momentarily reminded the 
man of the other child with the blue ribbons he 
had seen that day. This little boy was the only 
one of all his family left to Richard Sale. He had 
been ailing some time, as if consumed by an inward 
fever, and got weaker and weaker. 

A chair without a back ; a low wooden stool on 
three legs ; a board laid across a pan in the middle 
of the room, serving for a table, appeared to 
constitute the chief of the goods and chattels : 
but everything, including the floor, was scrupu- 
lously clean. Sale put down the things he had 
brought in, and stooped to kiss the child. 

"Been ill, d'ye say, Charley 1 Worse ? " 

The boy was sitting up now. He had on a warm 
comfortable shirt, made of some dark woollen stuff. 
The father stroked the hair from his brow with a 
gentle hand, 

" Tell da what the matter has been." 

At this juncture a woman came bursting in. A 
very untidy woman, in attire just suited to the 
place ; the Bridget Kelly spoken of. She with her 
husband and children occupied one of the upper 
rooms, and would often look after the lonely boy 
when his father was away. From what she said 
now. Sale made out that .she had come in that 
afternoon and found Charley " off his head,'' 
meaning that his mind had been wandering. 

" May be it's the beginning o' faver," she said. 
" His eyes was wild, and his cheeks had the flush 
o' the crimson rose. 1 think he must ha' been in 
it some time, for he couldn't remember nothing of 
how the day had gone. After that he took a faint- 
ing fit, and I thought sure he was " — she stopped 
for a moment, and then substituting better words 
for the boy's hearing than those she had been 
about to say — "worse, and it frightened me." 

Sale made no reply, only looked down at his child. 
The woman continued : 

" I just called my big Pat, and sent him to ask 
the doctor to step down here. But we haven't seen 
the colour of him yet ; and Pat he've not come 
back nather. I'll be after walloping him when he 
do." 

" What doctor did you send to 1 " asked Sale. 

" One that Jenny told us on. She come i' the 
thick o' the fight, and .she said she'd stay wi' him 
then. I was a busy dabbing out my bits o' things 
for the childer." 

Mrs. Kelly went away, and Richard Sale knelt 
down then to be nearer the child. He felt his hot 
brow ; he felt his little hands, they were cold ; 
and as he looked attentively into the face turned up 
to him, a great aching took possession of his heart. 
He loved the boy with a fervent love, as it was his 
nature to do. Contact with the rough usage of a 



rough world had not seared his affections as it does 
those of most men. The boy turned as if in 
sudden remembrance, and brought up a flower 
from somewhere between the bed and the wall. It 
was one of those single hyacinths, or field blue- 
bells, common to the season. 

" See, da ! " Da, a substitute for daddy, as may 
be surmised, had grown into common use. The 
boy had never called his father by any other name. 
" Jenny gave it me. See how nice it smells." 

" Ay. Are you hungry, Charley V' 

" I'm thirsty," answered Charley. 

Sale rose. He took off his smock-frock, stand- 
ing revealed in a coloured shirt, trousers, and 
braces made of string; lifted the board off the 
earthenware pan, and brought up from thence some 
dry bits of wood and a handful of coal : with these 
he made a fire. From a cupboard in the wall he 
took a few viseful articles, a cup or two, plate or 
two, a teapot, and small tin kettle, which he went 
into the courtyard to fill. But ever and anon as 
he busied himself, waiting for the water to boil, he 
east a yearning look on the boy's face, who lay 
languidly watching. This evening social meal, so 
patiently waited for through the day, through many 
a day, was the one white interlude in his life of 
labour. 

" It's ready now, Charley. Will you sit up to 
it ? '■ 

Charley left the bed and took his place on the 
three-legged stool close to the fire, and there 
seemed to be taken with a shivering fit. Sale folded 
the gi'ey blanket over him ; cut him some bread 
and half a saveloy, and gave it him on a plate. 
Charley took a bite of each and apparently could 
not swallow either. 

" The tea's coming, lad." 

The tea did come : and he drank it down at a 
draught, giving back the cup and the eatables to- 
gether. It was nothing very unusual : his appetite 
nad been capricious of late. "I can't eat it, da." 

" We'll try some sop, Charley. Here's a drop of 
milk left." 

Going to the cupboard for something. Sale came 
upon an unexpected luxury. Two cold potatoes on 
a plate and a bit of cooked herring. " Why, 
Charley, here's your dinner !" he exclaimed. 
Haven't you eaten it ?" 

"I forgot it, da." 

Of course this implied that his appetite had 
failed. Sale did not like it : it was the first time 
the mid-day food left for him had been wholly 
untouched. Slicing a bit of bread into a small 
yellow basin, Sale poured some boiling water on it, 
covered it for a minute or two, then drained the 
water off, and put in some sugar and the milk that 
remained. It may be remarked that Richard Sale 
did things neatly and tidily, quite different from 
the habits of his apparent class : as he was different' 



THE HOMES OF THE POOR 



265 



in speech and manner. Charley ate a spoonful of 
the sop, and gave the basin back again. " I'm only 
thirsty, da." 

He was lying covered up again, and had fallen 
asleep in his own place next the wall, for the 



had a shock head of hair, and a loud voice, in 
which he was wont to express decisive opinions ; 
but he wanted neither for common sense nor in- 
nate kindliness. He came in sniffing emphatically, 
saying in a word that he had been detained, and 




■ TaE DOCTOK LISTENED TO ALL, NEVER ANSWERING." {Brawn by Gordon Browne.) 



mattress served for both of them, and the father 
was washing up the cups, when a strange voice was 
heard above the tongues of the natives, who seemed 
to be always keeping up a perpetual traffic in the 
passage, and were by no means choice in their 
language. Sale opened the door. 
" Is there a sick boy here named Charles Sale V 
It was the doctor, come at last. A young man, 
a Mr. Whatley, who had just set up in a neighbour- 
ing street, and hoped to struggle into practice. He 
2h 



giving a keen look round the room. Sale began to 
explain the features of the boy's illness, but the 
doctor cut it short by unceremoniously taking the 
candle in his hand (leaving the bottle, which Sale 
made a slight apology for, but the candlestick had 
come to pieces a night or two ago), and holding it 
close to the sleeping face. A wan white face, with 
a faint streak of pink across the cheeks, and the 
dry lips open. He touched the child gently, feel- 
ine his skin and his nulse. 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



" Shall I wake him, sir 1" 

" Presently," replied Mr. Whatley. He put the 
candle back in the bottle, and stood against the 
side of the mantel-piece, his elbow resting on a 
projecting ledge of it, in silent disregard of the 
broken chair Sale offered. " Have you had advice 
for him before V 

" I've taken him to the dispensary. But — " 

" Well ?" for the man had stopped. 

" The gentleman there told me they could not 
do much for him, sir. Nothing, in fact. All he 
wanted was fresh air and exercise, they said, and 
^'ood living." 

" And have you given him the fresh air and 
■exercise ? " Looking round the room he did not 
add "and the living." 

" How could I, sir ? He is not strong enough to 
go about with me, and he'.s too big for me to carry. 
Now and then I've put him to sit on the street- 
"iJags in the sun, but it don't seem to answer. The 
street has no good air in it, and in better streets 
the police would only hunt him away, and tell him 
to move on." 

The young doctor gazed steadfastly at the 
speaker. That the man was superior to his 
apparent class, and could answer intelligence with 
intelligence, was unmistakable. Sale just men- 
tioned that he had lost two children before, also 
Iiis wife ; this one, Charley, had been ailing for 
about eight months now, nothing seemed to 
nourish him. The doctor listened to all, never 
answering. 

" What's the matter with him, sir ? " 

" Well, I should say it was poison." 

" Poison ! " echoed Richard Sale. 

" Poison," repeated Mr. Whatley. " He is being 
poisoned as fast as he can be, and the process is 
■nearly over. Children die of it daily in London ; 
and men and women too. You say you have lost 
two children already, and your wife : t/ieij died of 
poison ; there can't be a doubt of it. I dont care 
what particular form the final end may take — low 
fever — typhus — cholera — consumption — the cause 
is poison, and it's bred in these horrible tenements. 
If I had my way, I'd blow the whole of such 
rookeries up sky-high with gunpowder." 

" My wife used to say the place was poisoning 
ner," observed Sale. " She was country-born. 
What she seemed to die of was decline : but she 
was always delicate." 

" Decline ! " wrathfully repeated Mr. AVhatley. 
" If I stopped in this hole of a room long I should 
heave my heart out." 

" There's no drainage, sir, to the place ; there's 
nothing that there ought to be ; and the stench 
naturally strikes on them not accustomed to it. 
At times it's hardly to be borne by us who live 
in it." 

" I should think not. How you, an evidently 



intelligent and decent man, can live in it, is to me 
a mystery." 

" What else am I to do, sir t " returned Sale, with 
the subdued accent he mostly spoke in. "There's 
nothing better to be had at the price I can afford 
to pay. I wish there was. The greater part of us 
that live in these places don't do it by choice, but 
because we can't help ourselves. Some don't care ; 
they'd pig on contentedly to their lives' end ; but 
most of us would like to do better. There's no 
chance for us : there's no decent dwellings to be 
had for the very poor." 

The doctor could not gainsay this if Sale insisted 
on it, though he had a combative temper. Sale 
continued : 

" It's growing worse every day, more difficult to 
get a lodging. What with so many of the old 
houses being pulled down for what they call im- 
provements and for railways, and what with the 
increase of population, we shall soon have no 
homes at all." 

" I'd go out and encamp in the fields ; I'd lie under 
the arches of the bridges ; I'd walk the streets all 
night, rather than drug myself to death in this 
tainted atmosphere ! " cried the surgeoli, speaking as 
if he were in a passion. 

" No, sir, you wouldn't. It's easy enough to 
think this and that, but it's not easy to do it. A 
room, let it be as bad as it will, as bad as this, is a 
home, and open fields and bridges are not. Sir, 
believe me, we can't help ourselves : as long as 
there's no better places for us, we must put up 
with these." 

" It will kill some of you. It vsdll sap away 
your health and strength ; and your life after it." 

" Yes, sir ; I dare say." 

Mr. Whatley wondered what sort of man he had 
got hold of : the tone of voice was so quiet and 
resigned. Almost as if he took these greivances as 
a matter of course, against which he and the rest 
of the world were helpless. It was but a natural 
result of the state of things. 

" You have been better off, have you not 1" cried 
the surgeon. 

" Not for this four or five years. I was a good 
workman once, earning my thirty-five shillings a 
week. I went in for respectability then, for im- 
provement clubs, reading-rooms, and the like ; my 
father was a printer in the country, and we had 
good schooling and training ; which gave me a 
taste for such things. But I got rheumatic fever 
above five years ago, and was laid up for many 
months." 

" And then ?" 

" It left my hands partly crippled, sir : in some 
weathers they're nearly useless still. I've had to 
do what I can since then ; pick up odd jobs and 
live any way. Sometimes I get a job at Covent 
Garden Market ; or hawk things about the streets 



THE HOMES OF THE POOR. 



267 



when I've money to buy them fii-st. I don't 
complain, sir ; there's some worse oif than me." 

"Not in lodgings, I know," retorted the surgeon. 
" D'ye ever have a case of murder here V 

" I've not heard of one, sir. There's plenty of 
fighting and quarrelling. You may hear it going 
on now." 

" A nice school to rear children in I decent men 
and women they'll grow up ! If I lived in such a 
place, I should go in for drinking ; " concluded the 
young man with candour, as he took his arm from 
the ledge of the mantel-piece. 

"As most of them do. About the child, sir — is 
it fever that he has got 1 " 

" I tell you it's poison.' 

" He was delirious to-day." 

"Yes : from weakness. I suppose you have 
fever in the house." 

" It's never out of it, sir ; one sort or another. 
Never at any rate out of the locality." 

" Just so. But this child's has been nothing 
but chronic inward fever induced by the tainted 
atmosphere. It has nearly left him now." 

" Will he get well, sir V 

Mr. Whatley knew that far from getting well, 
the little life was at its close. It was one of those 
cases where the end comes so gradually, without 
adequate apparent cause, as to be unsuspected by 
ordinary observers. Sale waited for the answer, 
his lips slightly parted. 

" Would you rather hear the truth 1" asked the 
plain-speaking doctor. 

There was a minute's silence. "WeU — yes. 
Yes, sir." 

" I'm sorry to have to tell it you. You seem to 
value him — and that's what can't be said, I'll wager, 
of all the fathers in this place. He will not get 
well." 

" But — what's killing him 1 " cried Sale, with a 
pause and a sort of breath-catching. 

"I tell you the foul air he has breathed. It 
must and does affect children, and this one — as 
I can see at a glance — had not sufficient natural 
strength to throw off the poison." 

" And he'll not get well ! " repeated the father, 
who seemed to be unable to take in the fact. 



from his pocket, shot some powder from it into a 
tea-cup, and asked for fresh water — if there was 
such a thing to be had. Sale brought some, which 
the doctor smelt and made a face over ; and he 
put it to the powder and gave it to the child to 
drink. 

" He won't eat his food, sir," observed Sale. 

" I dare say not. He's getting beyond it." 

The boy held up the flower. " When Jenny gave 
me this, she said there'd be prettier bluebells in 
heaven." 

'' Ay, ay," answered the young man, in a tone 
as though he was lost in some dream. " I'U look 
in again in the morning," he said to Sale, when 
the latter went out with him to the unsavoury 
alley. " Y — ah ! " cried he, wrathfully, as he snifi'ed 
the air. 

Sale seemed to want to say something. 

" I've not got the money to pay you now, sir. I'll 
bring it to you, if you'll please to trust me, the very 
first I get." 

And the young man, who was a quick reader of 
his fellow-men, knew that it would be brought, 
though Sale starved himself to save it. "All 
right," he nodded, " it won't be much. Look here, 
my man," he stopped to say, willing to administer 
a grain of comfort in his plain way, " if it were my 
child, I should welcome the change. He'll have a 
better home than this." 

Sale went in again ; to the stifling atmosphere 
and the dirty waUs, in the midst of which the child 
was dying so peacefully. The boy did not seem 
inclined to sleep now ; he lay in bed talking, a dull 
glazed light in the once feverish eyes . Sale drew 
the three legged stool close, and sat down upon it . 
The lad put his hand into his father's, and the 
trifling action upset Sale's equanimity, who had 
been battling in silence with his shock of grief. 
Very much to his own discomfiture, he burst into 
tears ; and he had not done it when his wife 
died. 



The sounds of day were commencing outside ; 

two women had already pitched upon some point 

of dispute, and were shrieking at each other with 

I shrill voices. By-and-by Sale leaned over to look 

I at the still face, and saw what had happened — 

Mr. Whatley rose. He took a small white paper i that it was still for ever ! 




268 



GLEANINGS FROxM POPULAR AUTHOKS. 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 

[By John Keats.] 




Y heart aches, 
and a drowsy 
numbness 
pains 

My sense, as 
though of 
hemlock I 
had drunk, 
Or emptied 
some dull 
opiate to the 
drains 
One minute 
past, and 
Lethe -wards 
had sunk : 
Tis not through 
envy of thy 
happy lot, 

But being too happy in thy happiness,— 
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 

O, for a draught of vintage ! that hath been 
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvfed earth, 
Tasting of Flora and the country green, 

Dance, and Provenijal song, and sun-burnt mirth. 
O for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
And purple-stained mouth, 
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen. 
And witli thee fade away into the forest dim : 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou among the leaves hast never known. 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret. 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan , 
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, 
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and 
dies ; 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs ; 
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes. 
Or new love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 

Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards. 

But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards. 



Already with thee ! tender is the night, 
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays ; 
But hei'e there is no light. 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy 
ways. 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs ; 
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 

Wherewith the seasonable month enduws 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-t;ee wild ; 
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; 
Fast fading I'iolets covered up in leaves ; 
And mid-May's eldest ohiM, 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. 
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 

Darkling, I listen ; and. for many a time 

I have been half ii-. love with easeful Death, 
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 

To take into the air my quiet breath ; 
Now more tlian ever seems it rich to die. 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy ! 
Still would'st thou sing, and I have ears in vain, 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird ! 

No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
The voice I hear this passing night, was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown : 
Perhaps the selfsame song that found a path 
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for 
home. 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 
The same that oft-times hath 
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn. 

Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self ! 
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 
Past the near meadows, over the still stream^ 
Up the hillside ; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next vaUey-glades : 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream 1 
Fled is that music : — Do I wake or sleep ? 



THE FIRST MATE. 



369 



THE FIEST MATS. 

[By James Russell Lowell.] 




' E used to walk the deck with his 
hands in his pockets, in seeming 
abstraction, but nothing escaped his 
eye. How he saw I could never 
make out, though I had a theory 
that it was with his elbows. After he 
had taken me (or my knife) into his 
confidence, he took care that I should see 
whatever he deemed of interest to a landsman. 
Without looking up, he would say, suddenly, 



that our social hierarchy on shipboard is precise, 
and the second mate, were he present, would only 
laugh half as much as the first. Mr. X. always 
combs his hair and works himself into a black 
frock-coat (on Sundays he adds a waistcoat) before 
he comes to meals, sacrificing himself nobly and 
painfully to the social proprieties. The second 
mate, on the other hand, who eats after us, enjoys 
privilege of shirt-sleeves, and is, I think, the 
happier man of the two. We do not have seats 




"He was sure to titrn out in a calico shirt." [Brau^n'by W. RaUton.) 



" There's a whale blowin' clear up to win'ard," or, 
" Them's porpises to leeward : that means change 
of wind." He is as impervious to cold as a polar 
bear, and paces the deck during the watch much 
as one of those yellow hummocks goes slumping 
up and down his cage. On the Atlantic, if the 
wind blew a gale from the north-east and it was 
cold as an English summer, he was sure to turn 
out in a calico shirt and trousers, his brown chest 
half bare, and slippers without stockings. But 
lest you might fancy this to have chanced by 
defect of wardrobe, he comes out in a monstrous 
pea-jacket here in the Mediterranean. " It's kind 
o' damp and unwholesome in these ere waters," he 
says, evidently regarding the Midland Sea as a vile 
standing pool in comparison with the bluff ocean. 
At meals he is superb, not only for his strengths, 
but for his weaknesses. He has somehow or other 
come to think me a wag, and if I ask him to pass 
the butter, detects an occult joke, and laughs as 
much as is proper for a mate. For you must know 



above and below the salt as in old time, but above 
and below the white sugar. Mr. X. always takes 
brown sugar, and it is delightful to see how he 
ignores the existence of certain delicacies which 
he considers above his grade, tipping his head on 
one side with an air of abstraction, so that he may 
seem not to deny himself, but to omit helping 
himself from inadvertence or absence of mind. At 
such times he wrinkles his forehead in a peculiar 
manner, inscrutable at first as a cuneiform in- 
scription, but as easily read after you once get the 
key. The sense of it is something like this :— "I, 
X., know my place, a height of wisdom attained 
by few. Whatever you may think, I do not see 
that currant jelly, nor that preserved grape. 
Especially a kind Providence has made me blind 
to bowls of white sugar, and deaf to the pop of 
champagne corks. It is much that a merciful 
compensation gives me a sense of the dingier hue 
of Havana, and the muddier gurgle of beer. Are 
there potted meats'? My physician has ordered 



270 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



me three pounds of minced salt-junk at every 
meaL" 

One evening when the clouds looked wild and 
whirling, I asked X. if it was coming on to blow. 
"No, I guess not," said he ; "bumby the moon'll 
be up, and ' scoflf away ' that ere loose stuff." His 
intonation set the phrase " scoff away " in quota- 
tion marks as plain as print. So I put a query 
in each eye, and he went on : — " Ther' was a 
Dutch cappen onct, and his mate come to him in 
the cabin, where he sot takin' his schnapps, and 
says, ' Cappen, it's gittin' thick an' looks kin' o' 
squally : hedn't we's good's shorten sail ? ' ' Gimmy 



my alminick,' says the cappen. So he looks at it 
a spell, an' says he, ' The moon's due in less'n 
half an hour, an' she'll scoff away ev'ythin' clare 
agin.' So the mate he goes, and bumby down he 
comes agin and says, ' Cappen, this 'ere's the all- 
firedest, powerfuUest moon ever you did see. 
She's scoffed away the maintopgallants'l, and she's, 
to work on the foretops'l now. Guess you'd 
better look in the alminick agin, an' fin' out when 
this moon sets.' So the cappen thought 'twas- 
time to go on deck. Dreadful slow them Dutch 
cappens be." And X. walked away, rumbling 
inwardly like the roll of the sea heard afar. 



GEIZZLY. 

[From " T]ie Golden Butterfly." By Walter Besant and James EicE.j 




if HE travellers were low down on the 
western slope of the Sierra ; they were 
i^ in the midst of dales and glades — canons 
and gulches, of perfect loveliness, shut 
by mountains which rose over and 
behind them like friendly giants guarding 
a troop of sleeping maidens. Pelion was 
piled on Ossa, as peak after peak rose higher, all 
clad with pine and cedar, receding farther and 
farther, till peaks became points and ridges became 
sharp edges. 

It was autumn, and there were dry beds, which 
had in the spring been rivulets flowing full and 
clear from the snowy sides of the higher slopes ; 
yet among them lingered the flowers of April upon 
the shrubs, and the colours of the fading leaves 
mingled with the hues of the autumn berries. 

A sudden turn in the winding road brought the 
foremost riders upon a change in the appearance 
of the country. Below them to the left stretched 
a broad open space, where the ground had been 
not only cleared of whatever jungle once grew 
upon it, but also turned over. They looked upon 
the site of one of the earliest surface-mining 
grounds. The shingle and gravel stood about in 
heaps ; the gulleys and ditches formed by the 
miners ran up and down the face of the country 
like the wrinkles in the cheek of a baby monkey ; 
old pits, not deep enough to kUl, but warranted to 
maim and disable, lurked like man-traps in the 
open ; the old wooden aqueducts, run up by the 
miners in the year '52, were still standing where 
they were abandoned by the "pioneers;" here 
and there lay about old washing-pans, rusty and 
broken, old cradles, and bits of rusty metal which 
had once belonged to shovels. These relics and 
signs of bygone gatherings of men were sufficiently 
dreary in themselves, but at intervals there stood 



the ruins of a log-house or a heap which had once 
been a cottage built of mud. Palestine itself has 
no more striking picture of desolation and wreck 
than a deserted surface-mine. 

They drew rein and looked in silence. Presently 
they became aware of the presence of life. Eight 
in the foreground, about two hundred yards before 
them, there advanced a procession of two. The 
leader of the show, so to speak, was a man. He 
was running. He was running so hard, that any- 
body could see his primary object was speed. 
After him, with heavy stride, seeming to be in. 
no kind of hurry, and yet covering the ground 
at a much greater rate than the man, there came a. 
bear — a real old grizzly. A bear who was " shadow- 
ing " the man and meant claws. A bear who had 
an insult to avenge, and was resolved to go on with 
the affair until he had avenged it. A bear, too, 
who had his enemy in the open, where there was 
nothing to stop him, and no refuge for his victim 
but the planks of a ruined log-house, could he find 
one. 

Both men, without a word, got their rifles ready. 
The younger threw the reins of his horse to his 
companion and dismounted. 

Then he stood still and watched. 

The most exhilarating thing in the whole world 
is allowed to be a hunt. No greater pleasure in 
life than that of the Shekarry, especially if he be 
after big game. On this occasion the keenness of 
the sport was perhaps intensified to him who ran 
by the reflection that the customary position of 
things was reversed. No longer did he hunt the 
bear ; the bear hunted him. No longer did he 
warily follow up the game ; the game boldly 
followed him. No joyous sound of horns cheered 
on the hunter ; no shout, such as those which in- 
spirit the fox and put fresh vigour into the hare — ■ 



GRIZZLY. 



271 



not even the short eager bark of the hounds, at 
the sound of which Eeynard l)egins to think how 
many of his hundred turns are left. It was a silent 
chase. The bear, who represented in himself the 
-whole field — men in scarlet, ladies, master, pack, 
and everything — set to work in a cold, unsym- 
pathetic way, infinitely more distressing to a 
nervous creature than the cheerful ringing of a 
■whole field. To hunt in silence would be hard 
for any man ; to be hunted in silence is intoler- 
able. 

Grisly held his head down and wagged it from 
side to side, while his great silent paws rapidly 
cleared the ground and lessened the distance. 

" Tommy," whispered the young fellow, " I can 
cover him now." 

" Wait, Jack. Don't miss. Give Grisly two 
minutes more. Gad ! how the fellow scuds ! " 

Tommy, you see, obeyed the instinct of nature. 
He loved the hunt : if not to hunt actively, to 
■witness a hunt. It is the same feeling which 
■crowds the benches at a bull-fight in Spain. It 
Was the same feeling which lit up the faces in 
the Coliseum when Hermann, formerly of the 
Danube, prisoner, taken red-handed in revolt, 
and therefore nioriturus, performed with vigour, 
sympathy, and spirit the role of Actason, ending, 
as we all know, in a splendid chase by blood- 
iounds ; after which th^ poor Teuton, maddened 
by his long flight and e:^austed by his desperate 
resistance, was torn to pieces, fighting to the end 
•with a rage past all acting. It is our modern 
pleasure to read of pain and suftering. Those 
were the really pleasant days to the Eoman ladies 
when they actually witnessed living agony. 

" Give Grisly two minutes," said Captain Ladds. 

By this time the rest of the party had come up, 
and were watching the movements of man and bear. 
In the plain stood the framework of a ruined 
wooden house. Man made for log-house. Bear, 
■without any apparent effort, but just to show that 
lie saw the dodge, and meant that it should not 
succeed, put on a spurt, and the distance between 
them lessened every moment. Fifty yards ; forty 
yards. Man looked round over his shoulder. The 
log-house was a good two hundred yards ahead. 
He hesitated ; seemed to stop for a moment. Bear 
diminished the space by a good dozen yards— and 
then man doubled. 

"Getting pumped," said Ladds the critical. 
Then he too dismounted, and stood beside the 
younger man, giving the reins of both horses to 
one of the Mexicans. "Mustn't let Grisly claw 
the poor fellow," he murmured. 

" Let me bring him do^wn. Tommy." 

"Bring him down, young un." 

The greasers looked on and laughed. It would 
have been to them a pleasant termination to the 
"play" had Bruin clawed the man. Neither 



hunter nor quarry saw the party clustered to- 
gether on the rising ground on which the track 
ran. Man saw nothing but the ground over which 
he fle'w ; bear saw nothing but man before him. 
The doubling mano3uvre was, however, the one 
thing needed to bring Grisly within easy reach. 
Faster flew the man, but it was the last flight of 
despair ; had the others been near enough they 
would have seen the cold drops of agony standing 
on his forehead ; they would have caught his 
panting breath, they would have heard his muttered 
prayer. 

" Let him have it," growled Ladds. 

It was time. Grisly, swinging along with 
leisurely step, rolling his great head from side to 
side in time with the cadence of his footfall — one 
roll to every half-dozen strides, like a fat German 
over a trois-tenqjs waltz — suddenly lifted his face 
and I'oared. Then the man shrieked ; then the bear 
stopped, and raised himself for a moment, pawing 
in the air ; then he dropped again, and rushed with 
quickened step upon his foe ; then — but then — 
ping ! one shot. It has struck Grisly in the 
shoulder ; he stops with a roar. 

" Good, young un ! " said Ladds, bringing piece 
to shoulder. This time Grisly roars no more. He 
rolls over. He is shot to the heart, and is dead. 

The other participator in this chasse of two heard 
the crack of the rifles. His senses were gro'wing 
dazed with fear ; he did not stop, he ran on still, 
but with trembling knees and outstretched hands ; 
and when he came to a heap of shingle and sand 
— one of those left over from the old surface-mines 
— he fell headlong on the pile with a cry, and could 
not rise. The two who shot the bear ran across 
the ground — he lay almost at flieir feet — to secure 
their prey. After them, at a leisurely pace, strode 
John, the servant. The greasers stayed behind and 
lavighed. 

" Grisly 's dead," said Tommy, pulling out his 
knife. " Steak T' 

" No ; skin," cried the younger. " Let me take 
his skin. John, we will have the beast skinned. 
You can get some steaks cut. Where is the man 1 "- 

They found him lying on his face, unable to 
move. 

" Now, old man," said the young fellow cheer- 
fully, " might as well sit up, you know, if you can't 
stand. Bruin 's gone to the happy hunting- 
grounds." 

The man sat up, as desired, and tried to take a 
comprehensive view of the position. 

Jack handed him a flask, from which he took a 
long pull. Then he got up, and somewhat osten- 
tatiously began to smooth down the legs of his 
trousers. 

He was a thin man, about five and forty years of 
age ; he wore an irregular and patchy kind of 
beard, which flourished exceedingly on certain 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



square half inches of chin and cheek, and was as 
thin as grass at Aden on the intervening spaces. 
He had no boots, but a sort of moccasins, the 
lightness of which enabled him to show his heels 
to the bear for so long a time. His trousers might 
have been of a rough tweed, or they might have 
been black cloth, because grease, many drenchings, 
the buffeting of years, and the holes into which 
they were worn, had long deprived them of their 
original colour and brilliancy. Above the trousers 
he wore a tattered flannel shirt, the right arm of 



his flight was a small wooden box strapped round 
tightly, and hanging at his back by means of a 
steel chain, grown a little rusty where it did not 
rub against his neck and shoulders. 

He sat up and winked involuntarily with both 
eyes. This was the effect of present bewilderment 
and late fear. 

Then he looked round him, after, as before 
explained, a few moments of assiduous leg- 
smoothing, which, as stated above, looked ostenta- 
tious, but was really only nervous agitation. Then 




• Ths beak stopped akd raised himself for a moment." 



which, nearly torn to pieces, revealed a tatooed 
limb, which was strong although thin ; the buttons 
had long ago vanished from the front of the gar- 
ment ; thorns picturesquely replaced them. He 
wore a red-cotton handkerchief round his neck, a 
round felt hat was on his head ; this, like the 
trousers, had lost its pristine colour, and by dint 
of years and, weather its stiffness too. To prevent 
the hat from flapping in his eyes, its possessor had 
pinned it up with thorns in the front. 

Necessity is the mother of invention : there is 
nothing morally wrong in the use of thorns where 
other men use studs, diamond pins, and such gauds ; 
and the effect is picturesque. The stranger, in fact, 
was a law unto himself. He had no coat ; the 
rifle of Californian civilisation was missing ; there 
was no sign of knife or revolver ; and the only 
encumbrance, if that was any, to the lightness of 



he rose, and saw Grisly lying in a heap a few yards 
off. He walked over with a grave face and looked 
at him. 

When Henri Balafr^, Due de Guise, saw Coligny 
lying dead at his feet, he is said — only it is a 
wicked lie — to have kicked the body of his 
murdered father's enemy. When Henri HI. of 
France, ten years later, saw Balafr^ dead at his 
feet,, he did kick the lifeless body, with a wretched 
joke. That king was a cur. My American was 
not. He stood over Bruin with a look in his eyes 
which betokened respect for fallen greatness and 
sympathy with bad luck. Grisly would have been 
his victor but for the chance which brought him 
within reach of a friendly rifle. 

" A near thing," he said. " Since I've been in 
this doggooned country I've had one or two near 
things, but this was the nearest." 



THE PAUPEE'S DRIVE. 



273 



The greasers stood round the body of the bear, 
and the English servant was giving directions for 
skinning the beast. 

" And which of you gentlemen," he went on with 
a nasal twang more pronounced than before — 
perhaps with more emphasis on the word " gentle- 
men " than was altogether required — " which of you 
gentlemen was good enough to shoot the critter ? " 

The English servant, who was, like his master, 
Captain Ladds, a man of few words, pointed to the 
young man, who stood close by with the other 
leader of the expedition. 

The man snatched from the jaws of death took 
off his shaky thorn-beset felt, and solemnly held 
out his hand. 

"Sir," he said, "I do not know your name, and 
you do not know mine. If you did you would not 
be much happier, because it is not a striking name. 
If you'll oblige me, sir, by touching that " — he 
meant his right hand — " we shall be brothers. All 
that'.s mine shall be yours. I do not ask you, sir, 
to reciprocate. All that's mine, sir, when I get 
anything, shall be yours. At present, sir, there is 
nothing ; but I've Luck behind me. Shake hands, 
sir. Once a mouse helped a lion, sir. It's in a 
book. I am the mouse, sir, and you are the lion. 
Sir, my name is Gilead P. Beck." 

The young man laughed and shook hands with 
him. 

" I only fired the first shot," he explained. " My 
friend here " 

" No ; first shot disabled — hunt finished then — 



Grisly out of the running. Glad you're not clawed 
— unpleasant to be clawed. Young un did it. No 
thanks. Tell us where we are." 

Mr. Gilead P. Beck, catching the spirit of the 
situation, told them where they were, approxi- 
mately. " This," he said, " is Patrick's Camp ; at 
least, it was. The Pioneers of '49 coidd tell you a 
good deal about Patrick's camp. It was here that 
Patrick kept his store. In those old days — they're 
gone now — if a man wanted to buy a blanket, that 
article, sir, was put into one scale, and weighed 
down with gold-dust in the other. Same with a 
pair of boots ; same with a pound of raisins. 
Patrick might have died rich, sir, but he didn't — 
none of the pioneers did — so he died poor ; and 
died in his boots, too, like most of the lot." 

" Not much left of the camp." 

" No, sir, not much. The mine gave out. Then 
they moved up the hills, where, I conclude, you 
gentlemen are on your way. Prospecting likely. 
The new town, called Empire City, ought to be an 
hour or so up the track. I was trying to find my 
way there when I met with old Grisly. Perhaps 
if I had let him alone he would have let me alone. 
But I blazed at him, and, sir, I missed him ; then he 
shadowed me. And the old rifle's gone at last." 

" How long did the chase last 1 " 

"I should say, sir, forty days and forty nigbtsj- 
or near about. And you gentlemen are going to 
Empire City^' 

"We are going anywhere. Perhaps, for the 
present, you had better join lis.'' 



THE PAUPEE'S DRIVE. 

[By Thomas Noel.] 



fems^t^'K 




, HERE'S a grim one-horse hearse in a 
jolly round trot ; 
^ To the churchyard a pauper is going, I 

wot; 
The road is rough, and the hearse has no 
springs. 

And hark to the dirge that the sad driver sings : 
" Rattle his bones over the stones ; 
He's only a pauper whom nobody owns." 

Oh ! where are the mourners? Alas ! there are none ; 
He has left not a gap in the world now he's gone ; 
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man — 
To the grave with his carcase as fast as you can. 

" Rattle his hones over the stones ; 

He's only a pauper whom nobody owns." 

What a jolting and creaking, and splashing and din I 
The whip, how it cracks ! and the wheels, how they 
spin ! 
2 I . 



IIow the dirt right and left o'er the hedges is 

hurled ! 
The pauper at length makes a noise in the world. 

" Rattle his bones over the stones-; 

He's only a pauper whom nobody owns." 

Poor pauper defunct ! He has made some approach 
To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach ; 
He's taking a drive in his carriage at last, 
But it will not be long if he goes on so fast. 

" Rattle his bones over the stones ; 

He's only a pauper whom nobody owns." 

But a truce to this strain, for my soul it is sad 
To think that a heart in humauity clad 
Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end, 
And depart from the light Avithout leaving a friend. 

Bear softly his bones over the stones ; 

Though a pauper, he's one whom his Make; 
yet owns. 



274 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



THE TWO WELLERS. 

|Trom "The Pickwick Papers." By Charles Dickens.] 




) OU know Doctor's Commons, sir ? 
Paul's churcliyard, sir ; low arch- 
way on the carriage-side, bookseller's 
at one corner, hot-el on the other, 
and two porters in the middle as 
touts for licenses.'' 

" Touts for licenses ! " said Mr. Pickwick, 
gravely. 

" Touts for licenses," replied Sam. 

" "What do they do 1 " inquired his master, 
smiling again. 

" Dol You, sir ! That ain't the worst on it, neither. 
They puts thing.? into old gen'lm'n's heads as they 
never dreamed of. My father, sir, wos a coachman. 
A widower he wos, and fat enough for anything — 
unconmion fat, to be sure. His missus dies, and 
leaves him fom* hundred pound. Down he goes to 
the Commons, to see the lawyer and draw the 
blunt — wery smart — top boots on — nosegay in his 
button-hole — broad-brimmed tile — green shawl — 
quite the gen'lm'n. Goes through the archvay, 
thinking how he should inwest the money — up 
comes the touter, touches his hat : ' License, sir, 
license 1 ' ' What's that ? ' says my father. 
' License, sir 1 ' says he. ' What license 1 ' says 
my father. ' Marriage license,' says the touter. 
' Dash my veskit,' says my father. ' I never 
thought o' that.' ' I think you vants one, sir,' says 
the touter. My father pulls up, and thinks a bit. 

"'No,' says he, "I'm too old; b'sides, I'm a 
many sizes too large,' says he. ' Not a bit on it, 
sir,' says the touter. ' Think not 1 ' says my 
father. ' I'm sure not,' says he ; ' we married a 
gen'lm'n twice your size last Monday.' ' Did you, 
though 1 ' says my father. ' To be sure we did,' 
says the touter ; ' you're a babby to him — this way, 
sir — this way ! ' — and sure enough my father walks 
arter, him, like a tame monkey behind a horgan, 
into a little back office, vere a feller sat among 
dirty papers and tin boxes, making believe he was 
busy. 

" ' Pray take a seat, vile I makes out the affidavit, 
sir,' says the lawyer. ' Thankee, sir,' says my 
father, and down he sat, and stared with all his 
eyes, and his mouth vide open, at the names on 
the boxes. ' What's your name, sir 1 ' says the 
lawyer. ' Tony Weller,' says my father. ' Parish 1 ' 
says the lawyer. ' Belle Savage,' says my father ; 
for he stopped there wen h^ drove up, and he 
know'd nothing about parishes, he didn't. ' And 
what's the lady's name'*' says the lawyer. My 
father was struck all of a heap. ' Blessed if I 
know,' says he. ' Not know ! ' says the lawyer. 
' No more nor do you,' says my father. ' Can't I 



put that in arterwards t ' ' Impossible ! ' says the 
lawyer. ' Wery well,' says my father, after he had 
thought a moment, ' put down Mrs. Clarke.' 
' What Clarke 1 ' says the lawyer, dipping his pen 
in the ink. 'Susan Clarke, Markis o' Granby, 
Dorking,' says my father ; ' she'll have me if I ask, 
I des-say. I never said nothing to her, but she'll 
have me, I know.' The license was made out, and 
she did have him, and what's more she's got him 
now ; a]id / never had any of the four hundred 
pound, worse luck. And that's how I got a mother- 
in-law." 

" Very good ; you can go at any hour, Sam. I 
shall be busy with Mr. Perker." 

As he was sauntering away his spare time, and 
stopped to look at almost every object that met 
his gaze, it is by no means surprising that Mr. 
Weller should have paused before a small 
stationer's and print-seller's -vvindow : but, without 
further explanation, it does appear surprising that 
his eyes should have no sooner rested on certain 
pictures which were exposed for sale therein, than 
he gave a sudden start, smote his right leg with 
great vehemence, and exclaimed with energy — 

" If it hadn't been for this, I should ha' forgot all 
all about it till it was too late ! " 

The particular picture on which Sam Weller's 
eyes were fixed, as he said this, was a highly- 
coloured representation of a couple of human 
hearts skewered together with an arrow, cooking 
before a cheerful fire, while a male and female can- 
nibal in modern attire, — the gentleman being clad 
in a blue coat and white trousers, and the lady in 
a deep red pelisse, with a parasol of the same — were 
approaching the meal with hungry eyes, up a 
serpentine gravel path leading thereunto. A 
decidedly indelicate young gentleman, in a pair of 
wings and nothing else, was depicted as superin- 
tending the cooking. A representation of the 
spire of the church in Langham Place appeared in 
the distance ; and the whole formed a " valentine," 
of which, as a written inscription in the window 
testified, there was a large a assortment within 
which the shop-keeper pledged himself to dispose 
of to his countrymen generally at the reduced rate 
of one and sixpence each. 

" I should ha' forgot it — I should certainly ha' 
forgot it ! " said Sam. So saying, he at once stepped 
into the stationer's shop, and requested to be 
served with a sJieet of the best gilt-edged letter- 
paper and a hard-nibbed pen which could be war- 
ranted not to splutter. The articles having been 
promptly supplied, he walked on direct towards 
Leadenhall Market, at a good round pace, very 




THE TWO WELLERS. {Vrawn by Gordoi: B.-owKe.) 



THE TWO WELLERS. 



275 



diiferent from his recent lingering one. Looking 
round liim, he there beheld a signboard, on which 
the painter's art had delineated something remotely 
resembling a cerulean elephant with an aquiline 
nose in lieu of a trunk. Rightly conjecturing that 
this was the Blue Boar himself, he stepped into the 
house, and inquired concerning his parent. 

" He won't be here this three-quarters of an hour 
or more," said the young lady who superintended 
the domestic arrangements of the Blue Boar. 

" Wery good, my dear," replied Sam. " Let me 
have nine penn'orth o' brandy and water luke, and 
the inkstand, will you, miss 1 " 

The brandy and water luke and the inkstand 
having been carried into the little parlour, and the 
young lady having carefully flattened down the 
coals to prevent their blazing, and carried away 
the poker to preclude the possibihty of the fire 
being stirred without the full privity and concur- 
rence of the Blue Boar being first had and obtained, 
Sam Weller sat himself down in a box near the 
stove, and pulled out the sheet of gUt-edged letter- 
paper and the hard-nibbed pen. Then, looking 
carefully at the pen to see that there were no hairs 
in it, and dusting down the table so that there 
might be no crumbs of bread under the paper, Sam 
tucked up the cuffs of his coat, squared his elbows, 
and composed himself to write. 

To ladies and gentlemen who are not in the habit 
of devoting themselves practically to the science of 
penmanship, writing a letter is no very easy task ; it 
being always considered necessary in such cases for 
the writer to recline his head on his left arm, so as 
to place his eyes as nearly as possible on a level 
with the paper, and, while glancing sideways at the 
letters he is constructing, to form with his tongue 
imaginary characters to correspond. These 
motions, although unquestionably of the greatest 
assistance to original composition, retard in some 
degree the progress of the writer ; and Sam had, 
unconsciously, been a full hour and a haU' writing 
words in small text, smearing out wrong letters 
with his little finger, and putting in new ones which 
required going over very often to render them 
visible through the old blots, when he was roused 
by the opening of the door and the entrance of his 
parent. 

" Veil, Sammy," said the father. 

Mr. Weller, senior, was a very stout, red-faced, 
elderly gentleman, wrapped up to the chin in as 
many clothes as possible, which is a stage-coach- 
man's idea of comfort and perfection in apparels. 
When he had disembarrassed himself of enough 
outer wraps to have clothed a charity school 
tolerably, he took a chair, and continued : 

"But wot's that you're a-doin' of— pursuit of 
knowledge under difficulties — eh, Sammy ? " 

" I've done now," said Sam with slight embar- 
rassment ; " I've been a-writin'." 



" So I see," replied Mr. Weller. " Not to any 
young 'ooman, I hope, Sammy." 

" Why it's no use a-saying it ain't," replied Sam. 
" It's a walentine." 

" A what 1 " exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently 
horror-stricken by the word. 

" A walentine," replied Sam. 

"Samivel, Samivel," said Mr. Weller, in re- 
proachful accents, " I didn't think you'd ha' done 
it. Arter the warnin' you've had o' your father's 
wicious propensities ; arter all I've said to yori upon 
this here wery subject ; arter actiwally seein' and 
bein' in the company o' your own mother-in-law, 
vich I should ha' thought wos a moral lesson as no 
man could never ha' forgotten to his dyin' day — I 
didn't think you'd ha' done it, Sammy, — I didn't 
think you'd ha' done it ! " 

These reflections were too much for the good 
old man. He raised Sam's tumbler to his lips, and 
drank off its contents. 

" Wot's the matter now 1 " said Sam. 

"Nev'r mind, Sammy," replied Mr. Weller. " It'll 
be a wery agonisin' trial to me at my time of 
life, but I'm pretty tough, that's vun consolation, 
as the wery old turkey remarked, wen the fanner 
said he was afeared he should be obliged to kill 
him for the London market." 

" Wot'U be a trial ? " inquired Sam. 

" To see you married, Sammy — to see you a de- 
luded wictim, and thinking in your innocence that 
it's all wery capital," replied Mr. Weller. " It's a 
dreadful trial to a father's feelin's, that 'ere. Sammy." 

" Nonsense," said Sam. " I ain't a-goin' to get 
married — don't fret yourself about that. I know 
you're a judge o' these things. Order in your pipe, 
and I'll read you the letter — there." 

****** 

Sam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready for 
any corrections, and began — 

" ' Lovely creetur ' " 

" Stop," said his father. He rang. " A drop of 
the inwariable ! " he ordered of the barmaid, who 
promptly obeyed the command. 

" They seem to know your ways here," observed 
Sam. 

" Yes," replied his father ; " I've been here before 
in my time. Go on, Sammy." 

" ' Lovely creetur'," repeated Sam. 

" 'Taint in poetry, is it t " interposed his father. 

" No, no," replied Sara. 

" Wery glad to hear it," said Mr. Weller. 
"Poetry's unnat'ral ; no man ever talked poetry 'cept 
a beadle on Boxin' day, or Warren's blackin', or 
Rowland's oil, or some o' them low fellows ; never 
you let yourself down to talk poetry, my boy. 
Begin agin, Sammy." 

Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical 
solemnity, and Sam once more commenced, and 
read as foUows : 



276 



GLEANINGS FROM POPITLAE AUTHOKS. 



" ' Lovely creetur i feel myself a dammed ' " 

" That ain't proper," said Mr. Weller taking his 
pipe from his mouth. 

" No, it ain't ' dammed,' " observed Sam, holding 
the letter up to the light, " it's ' shamed ' — there's a 
blot there — ' I feel myself ashamed.' " 

" Wery good," said Mr. Weller. " Go on." 

" ' Feel myself ashamed and completely cir 

I forget what this here word is," said Sam, scratch- 
ing his head with the pen, in vain attempts to 
remember. 

" Why don't you look at it, then 1 " inquired Mr. 
Weller. 

"So I am a-lookin' at it," replied Sam, "but 
there's another blot. Here's a ' c,' and a ' i,' and a 
'd.'" 

" Circumwented p'r'aps," suggested Mr. Weller. 

" No it ain't that," said Sam ; " circumscribed ; 
that's it." 

" That ain't as good a word as circumwented, 
Sammy," said Mr. Weller gravely. 

" Think not ? " said Sam. 

" Nothin' like it," replied his father. 

" But don't you think it means more ^ " inquired 
Sam. 

" Veil, p'r'aps it is a more tenderer word," said 
Mr. Weller, after a few moments' reflection. " Go 
on, Sammy." 

" ' Feel myself ashamed and completely circum- 
scribed in a-dressin' of you, for you are a nice gal, 
and nothin' but it.' " 

" That's a wery pretty sentiment," said the elder 
Mr. Weller, removing his pipe to make way for the 
remark. 

" Yes, I think it is rayther good," observed Sam, 
highly flattered. 

" Wot I like in that 'ere style of writin'," said the 
elder Mr. Weller, " is, that there ain't no calling 
names in it — no Wenuses, nor nothin' o' that kui'l. 
Wot's the good o' callin' a young 'ooman a Wenus 
or a angel, Sammy 1 " 

" Ah ! what indeed 1 " replied Sam. 

" You might jist as well call her a griffin, or a 



unicorn, or a king's arms at once, which is wery 
well known to be a collection o' fabulous animals," 
added Mr. Weller. 

"Just as well," replied Sam. 

" Drive on, Sammy," said Mr. Weller. 

Sam complied with the recjuest, and proceeded 
as follow.s — his father continuing to smoke, with a 
mixed expression of wisdom and complacency, 
which was particularly edifying. 

" ' Afore I see you, I thought all women was 
alike.' " 

"So they are," observed the elder Mr. Weller, 
parenthetically. 

" ' But now,' " continued Sam — " ' now I find 
what a reg'lar soft-headed inkred'lous turnip I 
must ha' been ; for there ain't nobody like you, 
though 7 like you better than nothin' at all.' I 
thought it best to make that rayther strong," 
said Sam, looking up. 

Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam re- 
sumed : 

" ' So I take the privilege of the day, Mary, my 
dear — as the gen'hn'n in difficulties did, ven he 
valked out of a Sunday — to tell you that the fir,st and 
only time I see you your likeness was took on my 
hart in much quicker time and brighter colours 
than ever a likeness was took by the profeel macheen 
(wich p'r'aps you may have heerd on, Mary, my 
dear), altho' it does finish a portrait, and put the 
frame and glass on complete with a hook at the 
end to hang it up by, and all in two minutes and a 
quarter.' " 

" I'm afeered that werges on the poetical, 
Sammy," said Mr. Weller, dubiously. 

"No it don't," replied Sam, reading on very 
quickly, to avoid contesting the point — 

" ' Except of me, Mary, my dear, as your walen- 
tine, and think over what I've said — my dear Mary, 
I will now conclude.' That's all," said Sam. 

" That's rayther a sudden pull up, ain't it, 
Sammy 1 " inquired Mr. Weller. 

" Not a bit on it," said Sam ; " she'll vish there 
wos more, and that's the great art o' letter writin'." 



THE APPLE DUMPLINGS AND A KING. 

[By Dr. V/olcot.] 



NCE on a time, a monarch; tired with | From his high consequence and wisdom stooping, 



whooping. 
Whipping and spurring, 
Happy in worrying 
A poor defenceless, harmless buck— 
The horse and rider wet as muck — 



Entered through curiosity a cot. 

Where sat a poor old woman and her pot. 

The wrinkled, blear-eyed, good old granny, 
In this same cot, illumed by many a cranny, 



THE APPLE DUMPLINGS AND A KING. 



277 



Had finished apple dumplings for her pot : 
In tempting row the naked dmnplings lay, 
When lo ! the monarch in his usual way, 

Like lightning spoke : " What's this l what's 
this 1 what, what 1 " 

Then taking up a dumpling in his hand. 
His eyes with admiratiini did expand ; 



Strange I should never of a dumpling dream ! 
But, goody, tell me where, where, where's the seam ? " 

" Sir, there's no seam," quoth she ; " I ne'er did 

know 
That folks did apple dumplings sew." 
" No ! " cried the staring monarch, with a grin ; 
" How, how the devil got the apple in 1 '' 



J, »«e-"rT 




'Wheee's the seam!' 



And oft did majesty the dumpling grapple : 
He cried : " 'Tis monstrous, monstrous hard, 

indeed ! 
What makes it, pray, so hard ? " 
The dame replied, 
Low curtsying: "Please your majesty, the apple." 

" Very astonishing, indeed ! strange thing ! "— 
Turning the dumpling round— rejoined the king. 
" 'Tis most extraordinary, then, all this is — 
It beats Pinette's conjuring all to pieces ; 



On which the dame the curious scheme re 

vealed 
By which the apple lay so sly concealed. 

Which n:ade the Solomon of Britain start , 
Who to the palace with frdl speed repaired. 
And queen and princesses so beauteous scared 

All with the wonders of the dumpling art. 
There did he labour one whole week to show 

The wisdom of an apple dumpling maker ; 
And lo ! so deep was majesty in dough. 

The palace seemed the lodging of a baker ! 



GLEANINGS FEOM POPULAR AUTHORS. 




THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM. 

[By Edgar Allan Foe.] 



WAS sick — sick unto deatli witli that 
long agony ; and \vlien they at length 
sSIb^-. ^inbound me, and I was permitted to sit, 
WM!^ I felt that my senses were leaving me. 
The sentence — the dread sentence of 
death — was the last of distinct accentua- 
tion which reached my ears. After that, 
the sound of the inquisitorial voices 
seemed merged in one dreamy indeterminate hum. 
It conveyed to my soul the idea of revolution — per- 
haps from its association in fancy with the burr of 
a mill-wheel. This only for a brief period ; for 
presently I heard no more. Then silence, and 
stillness, and night were the universe. 

I had swooned, but still will not say that all of 
consciousness was lost. What of it there remained 
I will not attempt to define, or even to describe j 
yet all was not lost. In the deepest slumber — no ! 
In delirium — no ! In a swoon — no ! In death — 
no ! Even in the grave all is not lost. Else there 
is no immortality for man. 

Very suddenly there came back to my soul 
motion and sound — the tumultuous motion of the 
heart, and in my ears the sound of its beating. 
Then a pause in which all is blank. Then again 
sound, and motion, and touch — a tingling sensation 
pervading my frame. Then the mere conscious- 
ness of existence, without thought — a condition 
which lasted long. Then, very suddenly, tJiouriM, 
and shuddering terror, and earnest endeavour to 
compreliend my true state. Then a strong desire 
to lapse into insensibility. Then a rushing revival 
of soul and a successful effort to move. And now 
a full memory of the trial, of the judges, of the 
sable draperies, of the sentence, of the sickness, 
of the swoon. Then entire forgetfulness of all 
that followed — of all that a later day and much 
earnestness of endeavour have enabled me vaguely 
to recall. 

So far, I had not opened my eyes. I felt that I 
lay upon my back, unbound. I reached out my 
hand, and it fell heavily upon something damp and 
hard. There I suffered it to remain for many 
minutes, while I strove to imagine where and what 
I could be. I longed, yet dared not to employ my 
vision. I dreaded the first glance at objects around 
me. It was not that I feared to look upon things 
horrible, but that I grew aghast lest there should be 
nothing to see. At length, with a wild desperation 
at heart, I quickly unclosed my eyes. My worst 
thoughts then were confirmed. The blackness of 
eternal night encompassed me. I struggled for 
breath. The intensity of the darkness seemed to 
oppress and stifle me. The atmosphere was in- 



tolerably close. I still lay quietly, and made effort 
to exercise my reason. I brought to mind the 
inquisitorial proceedings, and attempted from that 
point to deduce my real condition. The sentence 
had passed, and it appeared to me that a very long 
interval of time had since elapsed. Yet not for a 
moment did I suppose myself actually dead. Such 
a supposition, notwithstanding what we read in 
fiction, is altogether inconsistent with real ex- 
istence ; but where and in what state was 1 1 The 
condemned to death, I knew, perished usually at 
the " auto-da-fes," and one of these had been held 
on the very night of the day of my trial. Had I 
been remanded to my dungeon to await the next 
sacrifice, which would not take place for many 
months 1 This I at once saw could not be. Vic- 
tims had been in immediate demand. Moreover, 
my dungeon, as well as all the condemned cells at 
Toledo, had stone floors, and light was not alto- 
gether excluded. 

A fearful idea now suddenly drove the blood in 
torrents upon my heart, and, for a prief period, I 
once more relapsed into insensibility. Upon re- 
covering, I at once started to my feet, trembling 
convulsively in every fibre. I thrust my arms 
wildly above and around me in all directions. I 
felt nothing ; yet dreaded to move a step, lest I 
should be impeded by the walls of a tomb. Per- 
spiration burst from every pore, and stood in cold 
big beads upon my forehead. The agony of sus- 
pense grew at length intolerable, and I cautiously 
I moved forward, with my arms extended, and my 
eyes straining from their sockets, in the hope of 
catching some faint ray of light. I proceeded for 
many paces ; but still all was blackness and 
vacancy. I breathed more freely. It seemed 
evident that mine was not, at least, the most 
hideous of fates. 

And now, as I still continued to step cautiously 
onward, there came thronging upon my recollec- 
tion a thousand vague rumours of the horrors of 
Toledo. Of the dungeons there had been strange 
things narrated — fables I had always deemed them 
— but yet strange and too ghastly to repeat, save 
in a whisper. 

My outstretched hands at length encountered 
some solid obstruction. It was a wall, seemingly 
of stone masonry — very smooth, slimy, and cold. 
I followed it up ; stepping with all the careful dis- 
trust with which certain antique narratives had 
inspired me. This process, however, afforded me 
no means of ascertaining the dimensions of my 
dungeon ; as I might make its circuit, and return 
to the point whence I set out, without being aware 



THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM. 



279 



of the fact — so perfectly uniform seemed tlie wall. 
I therefore sought the knife which had been in my 
pocket when led to the inquisitorial chamber. But 
it was gone ; my clothes had been exchanged for a 
wrapper of coarse serge. I had thought of forcing 
the blade in some minute crevice of the masonry, 
so as to identify my point of departure. The 
difficulty nevertheless was but trivial ; although, in 
the disorder of my fancy, it seemed at first insuper- 
able. I tore a part of the hem from the robe, and 
placed the fragment at full length, and at right 
angles to the wall. In groping my way around the 
prison, I could not fail to encounter this rag upon 
completing the circuit. So, at least, I thought ; 
but I had not counted upon the extent of the 
dungeon, or upon my own weakness. The ground 
was moist and slippery. I staggered onward for 
some time, when I stumbled and fell. My ex- 
cessive fatigue induced me to remain prostrate) 
and sleep soon overtook me as I lay. 

Upon awaking, and stretching forth an arm, I 
found beside me a loaf and a pitcher with water. 
I was too much exhausted to reflect upon this 
circumstance, but ate and drank with avidity. 
Shortly afterward I resumed my tour around the 
prison, and, with much toil, came at last upon the 
fragment of the serge. Up to the period when I 
fell, I had counted fifty-two paces, and, upon re- 
suming my walk, had counted forty-eight more 
when I arrived at the rag. There were in all, 
then, a hundred paces ; and, admitting two paces 
to the yard, I presumed the dungeon to be fifty 
yards in circuit. I had met, however, with many 
angles in the wall, and thus I could form no guess 
at the shape of the vault — for vault I could not 
help supposing it to be. 

I had little object— certainly no hope — in these 
researches ; but a vague curiosity prompted me to 
continue them. Quitting the wall, I resolved to 
cross the area of the enclosure. At first I pro- 
ceeded with extreme caution ; for the floor, although 
seemingly of solid material, was treacherous with 
slime. At length, however, I took courage, and 
did not hesitate to step firmly — endeavouring to 
cross in as direct a Hne as possible. I had advanced 
some ten or twelve paces in this manner when the 
remnant of the torn hem of my robe became 
entangled between my legs. I stepped on it, and 
fell violently on my face. 

In the confusion attending my fall, I did not 
immediately apprehend a somewhat startling cir- 
cumstance, which yet, in a few seconds afterward, 
and while I still lay prostrate, arrested my atten- 
tion. It was this : my chin rested upon the floor 
of the prison, but my lips and the upper portion 
of my head, although seemingly at a less elevation 
than the chin, touched nothing. At the same time, 
my forehead seemed bathed in a clammy vapour, 
and the peculiar smell of decayed fungus arose to 



my no.strils. I put forward my arm, and shuddered 
to find that I had fallen at the very brink of a 
circular pit, whose extent, of course, I had no means 
of ascertaining at the moment. Groping about 
the masonry just below the margin, I .succeeded in 
dislodging a small fragment, and let it fall into the 
abyss. For many seconds I hearkened to its 
reverberations, as it dashed against the sides of the 
chasm in its descent ; at length there was a sudden 
plunge into water, succeeded by loud echoes. At 
the same moment there came a sound resembling the 
quick opening and as rapid closing of a door over- 
head, while a faint gleam of light flashed suddenly 
through the gloom, and as suddenly faded away. 

I saw clearly the doom which had been prepared 
for me, and congratulated myself upon the timely 
accident by which I had escaped. Another step 
before my fall, and the world had seen me no 
more ; and the death, just avoided, was of that 
very character which I had regarded as fabulous 
and frivolous in the tales respecting the Inquisi- 
tion. To the victims of its tyranny there was the 
choice of death with its dii-est physical agonies, or 
death with its most hideous moral horrors. I had 
been reserved for the latter. 

Shaking in every limb, I groped my way back to 
the wall — resolving there to perish rather than 
risk the terrors of the wells, of which my imagina- 
tion now pictured many in various positions about 
the dmigeon. In other conditions of mind I might 
have had courage to end my misery at once, by a 
I)lunge into one of these abysses ; but now I was 
the veriest of cowards. Neither could I forget 
what I had read of these pits — that the sudden 
extinction of life formed no part of their most 
horrible plan. 

Agitation of spirit kept me awake for many long 
hours ; but at length I again slumbered. Upon 
arousing, I found by my side, as before, a loaf and 
a pitcher of water. A burning thirst consumed 
me, and I emptied the vessel at a draught. It 
must have been drugged — for scarcely had I drunk 
before I became irresistibly drowsy. A deep sleep 
fell upon me — a sleep like that of death. How 
long it lasted, of course I knew not ; but when 
once again I unclosed my eyes, the objects around 
me were visible. By a wild, sulphurous lustre, the 
origin of which I could not at first determine, I 
was enabled to see the extent and aspect of the 
prison. 

In its size I had been greatly mistaken. The 
whole circiut of its walls did not exceed twenty- 
five yards. In my first attempt at exploration I 
had counted fifty-two paces, up to the period when 
I fell ; I must then have been within a pace or 
two of the fragment of serge — in fact, I had nearly 
performed the circuit of the vault. I then slept, 
and, upon awaking, I must have returned upon 
my steps — thus supposing the circuit nearly double 



280 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



what it actually was. My confusion of mind pre- 
vented me from observing that I began my tour 
with the wall to the left, and ended it with the 
wall to the right. 

I liad been deceived, too, in respect to the shape 
of the enclosure. In feeling my way, I had found 
many angles, and thus deduced an idea of great 
irregidarity ; so potent is the effect of total dark- 
ness upon one arousing from lethargy or sleep. 
The angles were simply those of a few slight de- 
pressions, or niches, at odd intervals. The general 
shape of the prison was square. What I had taken 
for masonry seemed now to be iron, or some other 
metal, in huge plates, whose sutures or joints 
occasioned the depression. The entire surface of 
this metallic enclosure was rudely daubed in all 
the hideous and repulsive devices to which the 
charnel superstition of the monks has given rise. 
The figures of fiends in aspects of menace, with 
skeleton forms, and other more really fearful 
images, overspread and disfigured the walls. I 
observed that the outlines of these monstrosities 
were .sufficiently distinct, but that the colours 
seemed faded and blurred, as if from the effect of 
a damp atmosphere. I now noticed the floor, too, 
which was of stone. In the centi'e yawned the 
circular pit from whose jaws 1 had escaped ; but 
it was the only one in the dungeon. 

All this I saw indistinctly and by much effort 
— for my personal condition had been greatly 
changed during slumber. I now lay upon my 
back, and at full length, on a species of low frame- 
work of wood. To this I was securely bound by a 
long strap resembling a surcingle. It passed in 
many convolutions about my limbs and body, 
leaving at liberty only my head, and my left arm 
to such extent that I could, by dint of much ex- 
ertion, supply myself with food from an earthen 
dish which lay by my side on the floor. I saw, to 
my horror, that the pitcher had been removed. I 
say to my horror, for I was consumed with in- 
tolerable thirst. This thirst it appeared to be the 
design of my persecutors to stimulate — for the 
food in the dish was pungently seasoned. 

Looking upward, I .surveyed the ceiling of my 
prison. It was some thirty or forty feet overhead, 
and constructed much as the side walls. In one 
of its panels a very singular figure riveted my 
whole attention. It was the painted figure of Time 
as he is commonly represented, save that, in lieu 
of a scythe, he held what, at a casual glance, I 
supposed to be the pictured image of a huge pen- 
dulum, such as we see on antique clocks. There 
was something, however, in the appearance of this 
machine which caused me to regard it more atten- 
tively. While I gazed directly up at it (for its 
position was immediately over my own), I fancied 
that I saw it in motion. In an instant afterward 
the fancy was confirmed. Its sweep was brief, 



and of course slow. I watched it for some minutes, 
somewhat in fear, but more in wonder. Wearied 
at length with observing its dull movement, I 
turned my eyes uj)on the other objects in the cell. 

A slight noise attracted my notice, and looking 
to the floor, I saw several enormous rats traversing 
it. They had issued from the well, which lay just 
within view to my right. Even then, while I 
gazed, they came up in troops, hurriedly, with 
ravenous eyes, allured by the scent of the meat. 
From this it required much eff'ort and attention to 
scare them away. 

It might have been half-an-hour, perhaps even 
an horn- (for I could take but imperfect note of 
time), before I again cast my eyes upward. What 
I then saw confounded and amazed me. The 
sweep of the pendulum had increased in extent by 
nearly a yard. As a natural consequence, its 
velocity was also much greater. But what mainly 
disturbed me was the idea that it had perceptibly 
descended. I now observed — with what horror it 
is needless to say — that its nether extremity was 
formed of a crescent of glittering steel, about a 
foot in length from horn to horn ; the horns up- 
ward, and the other edge evidently as keen as 
that of a razor. Like a razor, also, it seemed 
massy and heavy, tapering from the edge into a 
solid and broad structure above. It was appended 
to a weighty rod of brass, and the whole hissed as 
it swung through the air. 

I could no longer doubt the doom prepared for 
me by monkish ingenuity in torture. 

What boots it to tell of the long, long hours of 
horror more than mortal, during which I counted 
the rushing oscillations of the steel ? Inch by inch 
— line by line — with a descent only appreciable at 
intervals that seemed ages — down and still down 
it came ! Days passed — it might have been that 
many days passed — ere it .swept so closely over me 
as to fan me with its acrid breath. The odour of 
the sharp steel forced itself into my nostrils. I 
prayed — I wearied heaven with my prayer for its 
more speedy descent. I grew frantically mad, and 
struggled to force myself upward against the sweep 
of the fearful scimitar. And then I fell suddenly 
calm, and lay smiling at the glittering death, as a 
child at some rare bauble. 

There was another interval of utter .insensibility ; 
it was brief ; for, upon again lap.sing into life, there 
had been no perceptible descent in the pendulum. 
But it might have been long, for I knew there 
were demons who took note of my swoon, and 
who could have arrested the vibration at pleasure. 
Upon my recovery, too, I felt very — oh, inex- 
pressibly — sick and weak, as if through long inani- 
tion. Even amid the agonies of that period, the 
human nature craved food. With painful effort I 
outstretched my left arm as far as my bonds per- 
mitted, and took possession of the small remnant 



THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM. 



281 



■wJiich had been spared me by the rats. As I put 
a portion of it within my lips, there rushed to my 
mind a half-formed thought of joy — of hope. Yet 
what business had / with hope 1 It was, as I say, 
a half-formed thought — man has many such, which 



and repeat its operations — again — and again. Not- 
withstanding its terrifically wide sweep (some 
thirty feet or more), and the hissing vigour of its 
descent, sufficient to sunder these very walls of 
iron, still the fraying of my robe would be all that 




Down and still down it came." 



are never completed. I felt that it was of joy — 
hope ; but I felt also that it had perished in its 
formation. In vain I struggled to perfect — to 
regain it. Long suffering had nearly annihilated 
all my ordinary powers of mind. I was an im- 
becile — an idiot. 

The vibration of the pendulum was at right 
angles to my length. I saw that the crescent was 
designed to cross the region of the heart. It 
would fray the serge of my robe — it would return 



for several minutes it would accomplish. And at 
this thought I paused. I dared not go farther 
than this reflection. I dwelt upon it with a per- 
tinacity of attention, as if, in so dwelling, I could 
arrest here the descent of the steel. I forced my- 
self to ponder upon the sound of the crescent as it 
should pass across the garment — upon the peculiar 
thrilling sensation which the friction of cloth pro- 
duces on the nerves. I pondered upon aU this 
frivolity until my teeth were on edge. 



282 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



Down — steadily down it crept. I took a frenzied 
pleasure in contrasting its downward with its 
lateral velocity. To the right — to the left — far 
and Avide — with the shriek of a damned spirit ! to 
my heart, with the stealthy pace of a tiger ! 

Down — certainly, relentlessly down ! It vibrated 
within three inches of my bosom ! I struggled 
violently — furiously — to free my left arm. This 
was free only from the elbow to the hand. I could 
reach the latter, from the platter beside me, to my 
mouth, with great effort, but no farther. 

Down — still unceasingly — still inevitably down ! 
I gasped and struggled at each vibration. I 
shrunk convulsively at its every sweep. 

I saw that some ten or twelve vibrations would 
bring the steel in actual contact with my robe, and 
with this observation there suddenly came over my 
spirit all the keen, collected calmness of despair. 
For the first time during many hours — or perhaps 
days — I thought. It now occurred to me that the 
bandage or surcingle which enveloped me was 
unique. I was tied by no separate cord. The first 
stroke of the razor-like crescent athwart any por- 
tion of the band would so detach it that it might 
be unwound from my person by means of my left 
hand. But how fearful, in that case, the prox- 
imity of the steel ! The result of the slightest 
struggle, how deadly ! Was it likely, moreover, 
that the minions of the torturer had not foreseen 
and provided for this possibility? Was it pro- 
bable that the bandage crossed my bosom in the 
track of the pendulum ? Dreading to find my 
faint, and, as it seemed, my last hope frustrated, I 
so far elevated my head as to obtain a distinct 
view of my breast. The surcingle enveloped my 
limbs and body close in all directions — save m the 
2Kith of the destroying crescent. 

Scarcely had I dropped my head back into its 
original position, when there flashed upon my 
mind what I cannot better describe than as the 
unformed half of that idea of deliverance to which 
I have previou.sly alluded, and of which a moiety 
only floated indeterminately through my brain 
when I raised food to my burning lips. The whole 
thought was now present, feeble, scarcely sane, 
scarcely definite, but still entire. I proceeded at 
once, with the nervous energy of despair, to attempt 
its execution. 

For many hours the immediate vicinity of the 
low framework upon which I lay had been literally 
swarming wth rats. They were -ivild, bold, rave- 
nou-s — their red eyes glaring upon me as if they 
waited for motionlessness on my part to make me 
their prey. " To what food," I shudderingly 
reflected, " have they been accustomed in the 
well 1 " 

They had devoured, in spite of all my efforts to 
prevent them, all but a small remnant of the con- 
tents of the dish. With the particles of the oily 



and spicy viand which now remained I thoroughly 
rubbed the bandage wherever I could reach it ; 
then, raising my hand from the floor, I lay breath- 
lessly still. 

At first the ravenous animals were startled and 
terrified at the change — at the cessation of move- 
ment. They shrank alarmed back ; many sought 
the well. But this was only for a moment : I had 
not counted in vain upon their voracity. Observing 
that I remained without motion, one or two of the 
boldest leaped upon the frame-work, and smelt 
at the surcingle. This seemed the signal for a 
general rush. Forth from the well they hurried 
in fresh troops. They clung to the wood — they 
overran it, and leaped in hundreds upon my per- 
son. The measured movement of the pendulum 
disturbed them not at all. Avoiding its strokes, 
they busied themselves with the anointed bandage. 
They pressed, they swarmed upon me in ever- 
accumulating heaps. They writhed upon my 
throat ; their cold lips sought my own ; I was 
half stifled by their thronging pressure ; disgust, 
for which the world has no name, swelled my 
bosom, and chilled, with a heavy clamminess, my 
heart. Yet one minute, and I felt that the struggle 
would be over. Plainly I perceived the loosening 
of the bandage. I knew that in more than one 
place it must be already severed. With a more 
than human resolution, I lay still. 

Nor had I erred in my calculations — nor had I 
endured in vain. I at length felt that I was free. 
The surcingle hung in ribbons from my body ; 
but the stroke of the pendulum already pressed 
upon my bosom. It had divided the serge of the 
robe. It had cut through the linen beneath. 
Twice again it svnmg, and a sharp sense of pain 
shot through every nerve. But the moment of 
escape had arrived. At a wave of my hand my 
deliverers hurried tumultuously away. With a 
steady movement — cautious, sidelong, shrinking 
and slow — I slid from the embrace of the bandage, 
and beyond the reach of the scimitar. For the 
moment, at least, / teas free ! 

Free ! and in the grasp of the Inquisition ! I 
had scarcely stepped from my wooden bed of 
horror upon the stone floor of the prison, when 
the motion of the hellish machine ceased, and I 
beheld it drawn up, by some invisible force, through 
the ceiling. This was a lesson which I took des- 
perately to heart. My every motion was un- 
doubtedly watched. Free ! I had but escaped 
death in one form of agony to be delivered unto 
worse than death in some other. With that thought 
I rolled my eyes nervously around on the barriers 
of iron that hemmed me in. Something unusual 
— some change which, at first, I could not appre- 
ciate distinctly — it was obvious had taken place in 
the apartment. For many minutes of a dreamy 
and trembling abstraction I busied myself in vain. 



THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM. 



283 



unconnected conjecture. During this period I 
became aware, for the first time, of the origin of 
the sulphurous light which illiunined the cell. It 
proceeded from a fissure, about half an inch in 
width, extending entirely around the prison at the 
base of the walls, which thus appeared and were 
completely separated from the floor. I endea- 
voured, but of course in vain, to look through the 
aperture. 

As I rose from the attempt, the mystery of the 
alteration in the chamber broke at once upon my 
understanding. I have observed that, although 
the outlines of the figures upon the walls were 
sufficiently distinct, yet the colours seemed blurred 
and indefinite. These colours had now assumed, 
and were momentarily assuming, a startling and 
most intense brilliancy, that gave to the spectral 
and fiendish portraitures an aspect that might 
have thrilled even firmer nerves than my own. 
Demon eyes, of a wild and ghastly vivacity, glared 
upon me in a thousand directions, where none had 
been visible before, and gleamed with the lurid 
lustre of a fire that I could not force my imagina- 
tion to regard as unreal. 

Unreal ! Even while I breathed there came to 
my nostrils the breath of the vapour of heated 
iron ! A suffocating odour pervaded the prison ! a 
deeper glow settled each moment in the eyes that 
glared at my agony ! a richer tint of crimson dif- 
fused itself over the pictured horrors of blood. I 
panted, I gasped for breath !' There could be no 
doubt of the design of my tormentors ; oh ! most 
unrelenting, most demoniac of men ! I shrank 
from the glowing metal to the centre of the ceU. 
Amid the thought of the fiery destruction that 
impended, the idea of the coolness of the well came 
over my soul hke balm. I rushed to its deadly 
brink. I threw my straining vision below. The 
glare from the enkindled roof illumined its inmost 
recesses. Yet, for a wild moment, did my spirit 
refuse to comprehend the meaning of what I saw. 
At length it forced — it wrestled its way into my 
soul — it burned itself in upon my shuddering 
reason. Oh ! for a voice to speak ! — oh ! horror ! 



oh ! any horror but this ! With a shriek, I rushed 
from the margin, and buried my face in my hands, 
weeping bitterly. 

The heat rapidly increased, and once again I 
looked up, shuddering as with a fit of the ague. 
There had been a second change in the cell, and 
now the change was obviously in the form. As 
before, it was in vain that I at first endeavoured to 
appreciate or understand what was taking place. 
But not long was I left in doubt. The inquisi- 
torial vengeance had been hurried by my twofold 
escape, and there was to be no more dallying with 
the King of Terrors. . The room had been square. 
I saw that two of its iron angles were now acute — 
two, consequently, obtuse. The fearful difierence 
quickly increased with a low rumbling or moaning 
sound. In an instant the apartment had shifted 
its form into that of a lozenge. But the alteration 
stopped not here — I neither hoped nor desired it 
to stop. I could have clasped the red walls to my 
bosom as a garment of eternal peace. " Death," I 
said, " any death but that of the pit ! " Fool ! 
might- 1 not have known that into the pit it was 
the object of the burning iron to urge me % Could 
I resist its glow? or if even that, could I with- 
stand its pressure? And now, flatter and flatter 
grew the lozenge, with a rapidity that left me no 
time for contemplation. Its centre, and of course 
its greatest width, came just over the yawning gulf. 
I shrank back, but the closing walls pressed me 
resistlessly onward. At length for my seared and 
writhing body there was no longer an inch of foot- 
hold on the firm floor of the prison. I struggled no 
more, but the agony of my soid found vent in one 
loud, long, and final scream of despair. I felt that 
I tottered upon the brink — I averted my eyes 

There was a discordant hum of human voices I 
There was a loud blast as of many trumpets ! 
There was a harsh grating as of thunders ! The 
fiery walls rushed back ! An outstretched arm 
caught my ovm as I fell, fainting, into the abyss. 
It was that of General Lasalle. The French army 
had entered Toledo. The Inquisition was in the 
hands of its enemies. 




284 



GLEANINGS FROM POPCTLAE. AUTHORS. 



HOME TEOUBLES, 




j^UTTING up a stove is not so difficult 
in itself. It is the pipe that raises 
four-fifths of the mischief and all the 
du.3t. You may take down a stove 
with all the care in the world, and yet 
that pipe won't come together again as it 
was before. You find this out when you are 
standing on a chair with your arms full of 
pipe and your mouth full of soot. Your wife is 
standing on the floor in a position that enables her 
to see you, the pipe, and the chair, and here she 
gives utterance to those remarks that are calculated 



inspired with life, and ache to kick them through 
the window. But slie doesn't lose her patience. 
She goes about with that exasperating rigging on, 
with a length of pipe under each arm and a long- 
handled broom in her hand, and says she don't see 
how it is some people never have any trouble put- 
ting up a stove. Then you miss the hammer. You 
don't see it anywhere. You stare into the pipe, 
along the mantel, and down the stove, and off to 
the floor. Your wife watches you, and is finally 
thoughtful enough to inquire what you are looking 
after ; and on learning, pidls the article from her 




'She keeps it up with T.iE broom." {Drawnh]j M. Stretch.) 



to hasten a man into the extremes of insanity. 
Her dress is pinned over her waist, and her hands 
rest on her hips. She has got one of your hats on 
hor head, and your top coat on her back, and a pair 
of goloshes on her feet. And while you are up 
there trying to circumvent the awful contrariness 
of the pipe, and saying that you know some fool 
has been mixing it, she stands safely on the floor 
and bombards you with such domestic mottoes as 
— " What's the use of swearing so 1 " " You know 
no one has touched that pipe." "You ain't got 
any more patience than a child. " " Do be careful 
of that chair." And then she goes off and re- 
appears with an armful more of pipe, and before 
you are aware of it she has got that pipe so 
horribly mixed up that it does seem that two 
pieces are alike. 

You join the ends and work them to and fro, and 
to and fro again, and then you take them apart and 
look at them. Then you spread one out and jam 
the other together, and mount them once more. 
But it is no go. You begin to think the pieces are 



pocket. Then you feel as if you could go out of 
doors and swear a hole twelve feet square through a 
block of brick buildings, but she merely observes, 
' Why don't you speak when you want anything, 
and not stare like a dummy 1 " 

When that part of the pipe which goes through 
the wall is up, she keeps it up with the broom 
while you are making the connection, and stares at 
it with an intensity that is entirely uncalled for. 
All the while your position is becoming more and 
more interesting. The pipe won't go together of 
course. The soot shakes down into your eyes and 
mouth, the perspiration rolls down your face and 
tickles your chin as it drops off, and it seems as if 
your arms were slowly but surely coming out of 
their sockets. 

Here your wife comes to the rescue by inquiring 
if you are going to be all day doing nothing, and if 
you think her arms are made of cast iron ; and then 
the broom slips off the pipe, and in her endeavour to 
recover her hold she jabs you under the chin with 
the handle, and the pipe comes down on your head 



HOME TROUBLES. 



285 



■witli its load of fried soot, and then the chair tilts 
forward enough to discharge your feet, and you come 
down on the wrong end of that chair with a force 
that would bankrupt a pile driver. You don't touch 
.that stove again. You leave your wife examining 
the chair and bemoaning its injuries, and go into 
the kitchen and wash your skinned and bleeding 
hands with yeUow soap. Then you go down street 
after a man to do the business, and your wife goes 
over to the neighbours with her chair, and tells 
them about its injui-ies, and drains the neighbour- 
hood dry with its .sympathy long before you get 
tome. 

I think I must have caught cold over that job. 
'Through the day I felt a little stiff about the 



wake up, and I did so. It immediately transpired 
that I might better have stayed where I was, and 
taken my chances with the saw. 

I found myself sitting straight up in bed with 
one hand spasmodically grasping my jaw, and the 
other swaying to and fro without any apparently 
definite purpose. 

It was an awful pain. It bored like lightning 
through the basement of my jaw, darted across the 
roof of my mouth, and then ran lengthwise of the 
teeth. If every flying pang had been a drunken 
plough chased by a demon across a stump lot, 1 
think the observer would understand my condition. 
I could no more get rid of the fearful agony than 
I could pick up a bit of wet soap when in a hurry. 




'■ V.'hat was the matter— did you slip?" {Drawn b'j M Strdch.) 



shoulders, with a sensation between the eyes as if I 
had been trying to inhale some putty. 

I observed to Maria (Mrs. Perkins' name is Maria), 
that I had caught a bad cold, and would probably 
regret it in time. But she treated the matter lightly 
by remarking that I had " caught my granny." As 
that e.stimable lady has been dead thirteen years, 
the reference to my catching her, with such a start 
in her favour, was of course a joke. 

When I went to bed that night, I apprehended 
trouble. Along one jaw, the left one, occasionally 
capered a grumbling sensation. It kept me awake 
an hour or so trying to determine whether that 
was all there wa.s of it, or whether there was some- 
thing to come after which would need my wakeful 
presence to contend against. Thus pondering I fell 
asleep, and forgot all about the troiible. I don't 
know how long I slept, but I fell to dreaming that 
I had made a match of fifty dollars a side to fight a 
cross-cut saw in a steam mill, and was well to work 
on the job, when the saw got my head between its 
teeth. I thought this was p favourable time to 



Suddenly it stopped. It went off all at once, 
giving me a parting kick that fairly made me 
howl. 

'' What on earth is the matter with you 1" said a 
voice from one corner of the room. 

I looked out into the dark, astonished. 

" Maria, is that you 1 " said I. 

" What there is left of me ; " was the curt reply, 
followed by a fumbling about the mantelpiece. 

Presently a light was struck, and Mrs. Perkins 
appeared before me. Her hair stuck up in all direc- 
tions. Her nose was very red, and her eyes were 
expanded to their fullest capacity. 

" Well I declare, Cyrus Davidson, if this hasn't 
been a night of it ! What in the name of mercy is 
the matter with you ? Are you gone clean crazy, or 
have you sat on a pin 1 For one whole hour you 
have been flopping your bony arms in all directions. 
If you have got through with your contortions I'll 
come to bed, and try to get a wink of sleep. " 

I thought I was rid of the tooth-ache, but a 
grumbling set in again next morning. It was just 



286 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



like the feeling of the night before, and a still voice 
said to me, " Look out, Perkins." 

I did. I went right away to the dentist who 
has pulled the teeth of our family and knew our 
peculiarities. There was an uneasy smell about 
his office. It was very suggestive of trouble, 
and as I snified it in I experienced a sinking 
feeling. I looked at him and smiled sickly. He 
was never, even on a holiday, the handsomest of 
msn, but. now his appearance was very, very 
depressing. 

I told him what was the matter ■mih me, how 
I had been up all night, how my wife had been 
thrown out of bed by the violence of my suffering, 
how — 

He asked me if I wouldn't sit down. I sat dowii, 
and then he held back my head, opened my mouth, 
and went to fishing ai'ound inside with a piece of 
watch spring. 

And while he angled he conversed. Said he — 

'■ You have caught a cold. " 

"I have." 

■' It seems the trouble is with one of the bicus- 
pids, " he remarked. 

Of com'se I didn't know what a bicuspid was, but 
thought it wouldn't look well in the head of a 
family being floored with so short a word as that, so 
I asked, with some vigour — 

" Which one 1 " 

" The tumorous, " he said. 

"I am glad it ain't any worse," I replied, throw- 
ing a sigh of relief. 



" The frontal bone," he went on to say, " is not 
seriously affected. The submaxillary gland is some- 
what enlarged, but it does not necessarily follow 
that parotitis will ensue. " 

" I am proud to hear that, " said I, which I cer- 
tainly was, although if the parotitis had ensued it 
isn't at aU likely I should have minded it much, 
unless it was something that would spOl, and I 
was dressed up. 

He kept on talking and angling. 

" The oesophagus isn't loose, " he next remarked. 

" Ah," said I, winking at him. 

" Oh no ; the ligaments are quite firm. I might 
say " 

" Murder ! Fire ! " I shouted in bewilderment. 

" Did it hurt you 1 " he asked, looking as calm 
and cool as the lid of an ice-cream freezer. 

" Hurt me 1 Did you expect to split me open 
with a watch spring, and not have it hurt me ? 
What was the matter — did you slip 1 " 

" Certainly not," he said, "I was simply getting 
hold of the tooth. Just hold your head back an 
instant, and I will have it out at once." 

" I guess I won't try it again," said I with a 
.shiver. " The toothache is bad enough, but it is 
heaven alongside of that watch spring. You may 
come up some time and pull it out when I ain't at 
home. I think I could endure the operation with 
necessary calmness if I was off about eight miles. 
Come up when you can." 

And I left. I hope he will come. I am boiling 
some pure spring water for him. 



THE BUCCANEER'S TREASURE. 

[From "Wolfert Webber; or, Golden Dreams." By Washinston Irving.] 




g^OLFEET WEBBER had carried 
home a fresh stock of stores and 
notions to ruminate upon. These 
accounts of pots of money and 
Spanish treasures, buried here and 
there and everywhere about the rocks and bays 
of these vsdld shores, made him almost dizzy. 
" Blessed St. Nicholas ! " ejaculated he, half aloud, 
■ is it not possible to come upon one of these 
golden hoards, and to make oneself rich in a 
twinkling t How hard that I must go on, delving 
and delving, day in and day out, merely to make 
a morsel of bread, when one lucky stroke of a 
spade might enable me to ride in my carriage for 
the rest of my life ! " 

The doctor had often heard the rumours of 
treasure being buried in various parts of the island, 
and had long been anxious to get in the traces of it. 
No sooner were Wolfert's waking and sleeping 
vagaries confided to him, than he beheld in them 



the confirmed symptoms of a case of money-dig- 
ging, and lost no time in probing it to the bottom. 
Wolfert had long been sorely oppressed in mind by 
the golden secret, and as a family physician is a 
kind of father confessor, he was glad of an oppor- 
tunity of unburdening himself. So far from 
curing, the doctor caught the malady from his 
patient. The circumstances unfolded to him 
awakened all his cupidity ; he had not a doubt 
of money being buried somewhere in the neigh- 
bourhood of the mysterious crosses, and offered to 
join WoKert in the search. 

The great church clock struck ten as Wolfert and 
the doctor passed by the churchyard, and the 
watchmen bawled, in hoarse voice, a long and 
doleful " All's well ! " A deep sleep had already 
fallen upon this primitive little burgh. Nothing 
disturbed this awful silence, excepting now and 
then the bark of some profligate, night-walking 
dog, or the serenade of some romantic cat. 



THE BUCCANEER'S TREASURE. 



287 



They found the old fisherman ■\vaiti]ig for them, 
smoking his pipe in the stern of his skiff, which 
■was moored just in front of his little cabin. A 
pickaxe and spade were lying in the bottom ot the 
boat, with a dark lantern, and a stone bottle of 
good Dutch courage, in which honest Sam, no 
doubt, put even more faith than Dr. Knipperhausen 
in his drugs. 

Thus, then, did these three worthies embark in 
their cocklesheU. of a skiff upon this nocturnal ex- 
pedition, with a wisdom and valour equalled only 
by the three wise men of Gotham, who adventured 
to sea in a bowl. The tide was rising and running 
rapidly up the Sound. The current bore them 
along almost without the aid of an oar. 

They now landed, and lighting the lantern, 
gathered their various implements and proceeded 
slowly through the bushes. Every sound startled 
them, even that of their own footsteps among the 
dried leaves ; and the hooting of a screech-owl 
from the shattered chimney of the neighbouring- 
ruin made their blood run cold. 

In spite of all Wolfert's caution in taking note 
of the landmarks, it was some time before they 
could find the open place among the trees, where 
the treasure was supposed to be buried. At length 
they came to the ledge of rock, and on examining 
its surface by the aid of a lantern, Wolfert recog- 
nised the three mystic crosses. Their hearts beat 
quick, for the momentous trial was at hand that 
was to determine their hopes. 

The lantern was now held by Wolfert Webber, 
while the doctor produced the divining rod. It 
was a forked twig, one end of which was grasped 
firmly in each hand ; whUe the centre forming the 
stem, pointed perpendicularly upwards. The 
doctor moved this wand about, within a certain 
distance of the earth, from place to place, but for 
some time without any effect : while WoKert kept 
the light of the lantern turned full upon it, and 
watched it with the most breathless interest. At 
length the rod began slowly to turn. The doctor 
grasped it with great earnestness, his hands trem- 
bling with the agitation of his mind. The wand 
continued to turn gradually, until at length the 
stem had reversed its position, and pointed per- 
pendicularly downward, and remained pointing to 
one spot as fixedly as the needle to the pole. 

" This is the spot ! " said the doctor, in an 
almost inaudible tone. 

Wolfert's heart was in his throat. 

" Shall I dig?" said the negro, grasping the spade. 

" Potztcnisend, no ! " replied the little doctor 
hastily. He now ordered his companions to keep 
close by him, and to maintain the most inflexible 
silence ; that certain precautions must be taken, 
and ceremonies used, to prevent the evil spirits, 
which kept about buried treasure, from doing them 
any harm. 



He then drew a circle round the place, enough 
to include the whole party. He next gathered dry 
twigs and leaves, and made a fire, upon which hu 
threw certain drugs and dried herbs, which he had 
brought in his basket. A thick smoke rose, dift'u- 
sing a potent odour, savouring marvellously of 
brimstone and assafoetida, which however grateful 
it might be to the olfactory nerves of spirits, nearly 
strangled poor Wolfert, and produced a fit of 
coughing and wheezing that made the whole grove 
resound. Dr. Knipperhausen then unclasped the 
voliune which he had brought under his aim, 
which was printed in red and black characters in 
German text. While Wolfert held the lantern, 
the doctor, by the aid of his spectacles, read off 
several forms of conjuration in Latin and German. 
He then ordered Sam to seize the pick-axe and 
proceed to work. The close-bound soil gave 
obstinate signs of not having been disturbed for 
many a year. After having picked his way through 
the surface, Sam came to abed of sand and gravel, 
which he threw briskly to right and left with the 
spade. 

The negro continued his labours and had already 
digged a considerable hole. The doctor stood on 
the edge, reading formulre, every now and then 
from his black volume, or throwing more drugs and 
herbs upon the fire ; while Wolfert bent anxiously 
over the pit, watching every stroke of the spade. 
Any one witnessing the scene, thus lighted up by 
fire, lantern, and the reflection of Wolfert's red 
mantle, might have mistaken the litth doctor for 
some foul magician busied in his incantations, 
and the grizzly-headed negro^ for some swart gob- 
lin, obedient to his commands. 

At length the spade of the old fisherman struck 
upon something that sounded hollow ; the sound 
vibrated to Wolfert's heart. He struck his spade 
again — 

" 'Tis a chest," said Sam. 

" Full of gold, I'll warrant it ! " cried Wolfert, 
clasping his hands with rapture. 

Scarcely had he uttered the words, when a 
sound from above caught his ear. He cast up his 
eyes, and lo ! by the expiring light of the fire, he 
beheld, just over the disk of the rock, what 
appeared to be the grim visage of the drowned 
buccaneer, grinning hideously down upon him. 

Wolfert gave a loud cry, and let fall the lantern. 
His panic communicated itself to his companions. 
The negro leaped out of the hole ; the doctor 
dropped his book and basket, and began to pray 
in German. All was horror and confusion. The 
fire was scattered about, the lantern extinguished. 
In their hurry they ran against and confounded 
one anothei'. They fancied a legion of hobgoblins 
let loose upon them, and that they saw by the 
fitful gleams of the scattered embers, strange 
figures in red caps gibbering and ramping around 



288 



GLEANINGS FEOM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



them. The doctor ran one way, the negro another, 
and Wolfert made for the waterside. As he 
plunged, struggling onwards through bush and 
brake, he heard the tread of some one in pursuit. 
He scrambled frantically forward. The footsteps 
gained upon him. He felt himself grasped by 
his cloak, when suddenly his pursuer was attacked 
in turn. 

One of the combatants was disposed of, but 
whethci iii'^iid I.I' !'ie, Wolfert could not tell, or 



bank, bumping from rock to rock, and bush to- 
bush, and leaving the red cloak fluttering, like a. 
bloody banner, in the air. 

It was a long while before Wolfert came to him- 
self. When he opened his eyes, the ruddy streaks- 
of morning were already shooting up the sky. He^ 
found himself lying in the bottom of a boat, 
grievously battered. He attempted to sit up, but- 
he was too sore and stiff to move. A voice re- 
quested him, in friendly accents, to lie stiU. He: 




' The doctor stood on the edge, reading formulae." 



whether they might or not both be foes. He 
heard the survivor approach, and his terror re- 
vived. He saw, where the profile of the rocks rose 
against the horizon, a human form advancing. He 
could not be mistaken — it must be the buccaneer. 
'Whither should he fly 1 a precipice was on one side, 
a murderer on the other. The enemy approached 
— ^he was close at hand. Wolfert attempted to 
let himself down the face of the cliff His cloak 
caught in a thorn that grew on the edge. He was 
jerked from off his feet, and held dangling in the 
air, half choked by the string with which his care- 
ful wife had fastened the garment round his neck. 
Wolfert thought his last moment was arrived ; 
already had he committed his soul to St. Nicholas, 
when the string broke, and he tumbled down the 



turned his eyes towards the speaker — it was Dirk 
Waldron. He had dogged the party at the earnest 
request of Dame Webber and her daughter, who 
with the laudable curiosity of their sex had pried 
into the secret consultations of Wolfert and the 
doctor. Dirk had been completely distanced in 
following the light skiff of the flsherman, and had 
just come in time to rescue the poor money-digger 
from his pursuer. 

Thus ended this perilous enterprise. The doctor 
and black Sam severally found their way back to 
the Manhattoes, each having some tale of peril to 
relate. As to poor Wolfert, instead of returning 
in tri umph, laden with bags of gold, he was borne 
home on a shutter, followed by a rabble rou' 
of curious urchins. 



GOING HOME. 



289 



THE COURTIN'. 

[By James Russell Lowell.] 




<]KLE crep' up 
quite unbe- 
knovm, 

An' peeked in 
thru the win- 
der, 
An' there sot 
Huldy all 
alone, 

'ith no one nigh 
to hinder. 

.\gin' the chimbly 
crooknecks 
hung, 
An' i]i among' em j-u.sted 
The ole queen'.s arm thet gran'ther Young 
Fetched back from Concord busted. 



The wannut logs shot sparkles out 
Toward the pootiest, bless her ! 

An' leetle fires danced all about 
The ohiny on the dresser. 

The very room, coz she wuz in. 
Looked warm frum floor to ceilinr' 

An' she looked full ez rosy agin 
Ez th' apple she wuz peelin'. 

She heerd a foot an' knowd it, tu, 
A-raspin' on the scraper — 

All ways to once her feelins flew 
Like sparks in burnt-up paper 

He kin' o' I'itered on the mat, 
Some doubtfle of the seekle : 

His heart kep' goin' pitypat, 
But hern went pity Zekle. 



GOmG HOME. 

[Trom " Broken to Harness.'* By Edmund Yates.] 




r HE room lay iu deep shadow, the lamp 
liaving been moved behind the screen. 
On its handsome bracket the Louis- 
>^jS Quatorze ormolu clock ticked solemnly 
away, registering the death of each 
minute audibly, and indefinably forcing itself upon 
the attention of those .sitting by, in connection with 
the rapidly-closing earthly career of the sufferer on 
the bed. She lay there, having again fallen into 
deep heavy slumber, broken occasionally by a fitful 
cry, a moan of anguish, then relapsing once more into 
stertorous breathing and seemingly placid rest. In 
a large arm-chair close by the head of the bed sat 
Robert Simnel, his eyes tear-blurred, his cheeks 
swollen and flushed, his lips compressed, his hands 
stretched straight out before him and rigidly knit 
together over his knee. This was the end of it, 
then ; the result of all his hopes and fears, his toil- 
ing and his scheming. Just as the prize was in his 
grasp, it melted into thin air. Bitter, frightfully 
bitter, as were his reflections at that moment, they 
were tinged -ndth very little thought of self. Grief, 
unspeakable grief, plucked at his heartstrings as 
he looked upon the mangled wreck of the only one 
he had ever really cherished in the course of his 
busy life. There lay the beautiful form which he 
had seen, so round and plump, swaying from side 
in graceful inflections, with every movement of her 
2k 



horse, now crushed out of shape and swathed with 
bandages and splints. The fair hair, which he re- 
collected tightly knotted under the pretty hat, lay 
floating over the pillow, dank with death-dew ; the 
strong white hands, against the retaining grasp of 
which the fieriest horses had pulled and plunged in 
vain, lay helpless on the coverlet, cut and scored by 
the gravel, and without an infant's power in them. 
A fresh burst of tears clouded Robert Simnel's eyes 
as he looked on this sad sight ; and his heart sunk 
within him as he felt that his one chance in life, 
his one chance of love and peace and happiness, 
was rapidly vanishing before him. Then the ex- 
pression of his face changed, his eyes flashed, he set 
his teeth, and drove his nails into the palms of his 
hands ; for in listening to poor Kate's incoherent 
exclamations and broken phrases, Simnel had gath- 
ered sufficient to give him reason to suspect that 
she had met Beresford, and that he had somehow 
or other — whether intentionally or not, Simnel 
could not make out — been connected with, if not 
the primary cause of, the accident. And then 
Simnel's chest heaved, and his breath came thick, 
and he inwardly swore that he would be revenged 
on this man, who, to the last, had proved himself 
the evil genius of her who once so fondly loved 
him. 
When Barbara and Frank entered the room 



290 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



together, Simnel looked up, and the bad expression 
faded out of his face. He in common with the rest 
of the world, had heard some garbled story of the 
separation, and he saw at a glance that poor Kitty's 
accident had been the means of throwing them 
together again, and of effecting a reconciUation. 
What he had just heard from the girl's mouth of 
Churchill had inspired in him a sense of gratitude 
and regard ; and as he noticed Barbara clinging 
closely to her husband's arm^ as she threw a half- 
frightened glance towards the bed, he felt himself 
dimly acknowledging the mysterious workings of 
that Providence, which in its own good time, brings 
all things to their appointed end. 

Frank and Barbara, after casting a hurried look 
at the bed, had seated themselves on the other side ; 
the nurse, tired out with watching, had drawn her 
large chair close to the fire and fallen into that state 
of nodding and catching herself up again, of strug- 
gling with sleep, then succumbing, then diving for- 
ward with a liod and pulling herself rigid in an 
instant, — a state so common in extra-fatigue ; and 
Simnel had dropped into his old desolate attitude. 
So they sat, no one speaking. Ah, the misery of 
that watching in a sick-room ! the solemn silence 
scarcely broken by the ticking of the clock, the 
crackling of the fire, the occasional dropping of the 
coals, the smothered hum of wheels outside ; the 
horrible thoughts that at such times get the masteiy 
of the mind and riot in full sway, — thoughts of the 
sick person there being watched, doubts as to the 
chances of their recovery, wonderings as to whether 
they themselves are conscious of their danger, as to 
whether they are what is commonly called " pre- 
pared " to die. Then a dreamy state, in which we 
begin to wonder when we shall be in similar plight ; 
and where 1 Shall we have had time for the reali- 
sation of those schemes which now so much occupy 
us, or shall we be cut ofi^ suddenly 1 Shall we be 
able to bear it calmly and bravely when the doctor 
makes that dread announcement, and tells us that 
if we have any earthly affairs to settle, it were best 
to do it at once ; for it is impossible to deny that 
there is a certain amount of danger, etc., etc. And 
the boys, with life before them, and no helping, 
guiding hand to point out the proper path '? And 
the wife, dearest helpmate, true in all her wifely 
duties, but ah ! how unfitted to combat with the 
world, to have the responsibilities of the household 
to bear alone 1 And then the end itself ! — the Shadow 
cloaked from head to foot ! the great hereafter ! 
■' Behold, we know not anything ! " Happy are we 
to arouse from that dismal reverie at the sound of 
the wheels of the doctor's carriage, and gaze into 
his eyes, trusting there to read a growing hope. 

The reflections of the four persons assembled 
round poor Kate Mellon's sick-bed were not entire- 
ly of this kind. The minds of Frank and Barbara 
were naturally full of all that had just occurred, in 



which they were most interested ; full of thoughts 
of past storms and future happiness, — full of such 
pleasurable emotions, that the actual scene before 
them had but a minor influence. Simnel was pon- 
dering over his shattered idol and his dreams of 
vengeance. And then came the sound of the wheels 
and the smothered knock, and then the gentle 
opening of the door, and Mr. Slade's pleasant pre- 
sence in the room. 

He approached the bed, and surveyed Ihe sleeper ; 
crossed the room with the softest footsteps,, and 
asked a few whispered questions of the nurse ; then 
turned quietly back, and seated himself by Frank 
and Barbara. 

" How do you find her 1 " asked the latter. 

Mr. Slade simply shook his head, without making 
any verbal reply. 

"The nurse summoned us hurriedly about half- 
an-hour ago," whispered Churchill ; " but when we 
came in, we found her in the state in which you 
now see her ; she has not moved since, scarcely." 

" Poor child ! poor child ! " said Mr. Slade, plying 
his pocket-handkerchief very vigorously ; she'll not 
move much more." 

"Is she, — is she very bad to-night?" asked 
Barbara. 

" Yes, my dear," said the old gentleman, taking a 
large pinch of snuff to correct his emotion ; " yes, 
my dear, she is very bad, as you would say. There 
is a pinched, worn look in her face which is unmis- 
takable. She is going home rapidly, poor girl 1 " 

The sense of the last observation, though he had 
heard the words, seemed to have reached Mr. 
Simnel's ears, for he rose hurriedly, and crossing to 
Mr. Slade, took him by the arm and led him on 
one side. 

"Did you say she was dying T' he asked in a 
hoarse whisper, when they had moved some distance 
from the rest. 

" I did not say so, though I implied it," said the 
old man ; then, peering at him from under his spec- 
tacles, " May I ask, are you any relation of the 
lady's '? " 

" No, no relation ; only I — I was going to be 
married to her, that was all." He said these words 
in a strange, hard, dry voice ; and Mt. Slade felt him 
clutch his wrist tight as he went on to say, " Is 
there no hope 1 You won't take amiss what I say ; 
I know your talent and your position ; but still, in 
some cases, a second opinion, — ^if there is anything 
that money can do — " 

" My dear sir," said Mr. Slade, " I tinderstand 
perfectly what you mean ; and God knows if there 
were anything to be done I wouldn't stand in the 
way ; but in this case, if you had the whole College 
of Surgeons before you, and the gold-fields of 
Australia at your back, there could be but one 
result." 

Mr. Simnel bowed his head, while one great 




GOING HOME. (I>)-a«!ii iij Gordon Browne.) 



"GO/JVB HOME- [p. ! 



GOING HOME. 



291 



sMver ran tliroiigh his frame. Then he looked up 
and said, " And when ? " 

" Immediately, — to-night ; in two or three hours 
at most. She will probably rise from this lethargy, 
have some moments of consciousness, and then — " 

"And then r' 

Mr. Slade made no direct answer, but he shrugged 
his shoulders and turned on liis heel. Silently he 
shook hands with Barbara and Churchill, then with 
Simnel, placing one hand on his shoulder, and 
gripping him tightly with the other ; then he walked 
to the bed, and bent over it, peering into poor 
Kitty's tortured face, while two large tears fell on 
the coverlet. Then he stooped and lightly kissed 
the hand which lay outstretched, and then hurried 
noiselessly from the room. Mr. Slade saw several 
patients that night before going to a scientific con- 
versazione at the Hanover Square Rooms, — a noble 
lord, who had softening of the brain, and who pas- 
sed his days in a big arm-chair, and made a moan- 
ing noise, and wept when turned away from the 
fire ; a distinguished commoner, who had given way 
to brandy, and was raving in delirium ; and a young- 
gentleman, who, in attempting to jump the mess- 
room table after dinner, had slipped, and sustained 
a compound fracture of his leg. But at each of these 
visits he was haunted by the palKd, tortured face of 
the dying girl. At the conversazione it got between 
the microscope and a most delicious preparation ; 
and was by his side as he drew on his nightcap, and 
prepared for his hard-earned slumbers. 

Slowly, slowly wore away the night : Simnel still 
sat rigid and erect : but the nurse was sound asleep, 
and Barbara's head had drooped upon Frank's 
shoulder, when suddenly the room rang with a 
shrill startling cry, In an instant all rushed to the 
bedside. There lay Kate awake, but still under the 
influence of some dreadful dream. 

" Keep him off ; keep him off ! " she cried. " It's 
unfair, it's cowardly, Charley ! I'm a woman^ and 
you hit so hard ! Oh, Robert," she exclaimed, 
vainly endeavouring to drag herself towards Simnel, 
"you'll keep him off! you'll defend me ! " 

" There's no one there, Kate," said Simnel, drop- 
ping on his knees by the bedside, and taking her 
hand ; " there's no one to hurt you, my child." 

" I was dreaming then," said Kate ; " oh, such a 

horrid dream ! I thought I Who are these % " 

she exclaimed, looking at Barbara and Frank. " I'm 
scarcely awake yet, I think. Why, it's Guardy, of 
course ! and you, clear, who were so kind to me. 
But how are you here together ? I can't make that 
out." 

" This is my wife, Kate," said Churchill ; " my 
wife, of whom you were speaking this evening." 

" Your wife ! ah, I'm so glad ; I never thought of 
that ; I never thought of asking her who she was ; 
I only knew she was, oh, so kind and rso affection- 
ate with me ; and it was because she was your vsdfe, 



eh 1 Will you kiss me again, dear ! So ; and again ! 
Wiat a sweet soft face it is ! Ah, he's been so good 
to me, dear, this husband of yours ; and I've given 
him such trouble for so many years. So grave and 
so steady he's always been, that I've looked upon 
him as quite an old fellow, and never thought of his 
marrying. I — I'm much weaker to-night, I think ; 
the pain seems to have left my side ; but I feel so 
weak, as though I coiddn't raise a finger. You're 
there, Robert ? " 

'' Yes, dear." 

" Ay, I feel your hand-grip now ! You must not 
mind what I am going to say, Robert ; you took on 
so before ; but you'll be brave now, eh, Robert 1 I 
— I know I'm going home, — to my long home, I 
mean ; and I want to say how happy, and peaceful, 
and grateful to the Lord, I am. I've often thought 
of this tune, — often and often ; and wondered,— and 
I've often thought it would be like this, and yet 
not quite in this way. You used to talk to me 
about my rashness, Guardy, — in riding, I mean." 

" Yes, dear Kate ; and you always promised and 
you never did, my headstrong child ! " 

" No, Guardy, I didn't, and yet I tried hard ; but 
I hadn't much pleasure elsewise, had I ? Robert 
knows that ; and I dul so enjoy my work ! I've 
often thought it might come when I was with the 
hounds, and that would have been dreadful ! All 
the business and bother in the field, and carried 
away somewhere, to some wretched place, where 
there'd have been no one near to care for me ; and 
now I've you all here, and that kind old doctor ; 
and oh, thank God, for all." 

There was a little pause, and then she asked in, 
if anything, a weaker voice, " What's become of the 
horse 1 does any one know 1 — the horse, I mean, 
that did this ? " 

" He was taken home, Kate, so Freeman said. 
He's a good deal cut ; but — " 

" Oh don't let him come to grief, Robert ! It 
wasn't his fault, poor fellow ! He was startled by 
the — ah, well ; it's all over now ! Don't frown so, 
Robert ; I ought to have known better. Lord Clon- 
mel always said he had a temper of Lis own ; but 
I thought I could do anything, and — . Some of 
them will crow over this, won't they ? Those Jeffrey 
girls, who always said I was a park-rider, and no 
good at fencing, eh'? Well, well, that's neither 
here nor there. You know all about the will, 
Guardy, — in the desk, you know 1 and what I said 
about your having — and Freeman— and the men's 
wages ; and — " 

As she spoke she sunk back, and seemed to fall 
asleep at once. The nurse, who had been hovering 
round, advanced and looked anxiously at her, lay- 
ing her finger on her pulse, and peering into her 
face. Reassured, she retired again ; and the others, 
save Simnel, who still remained kneeling by the 
bed, resumed their places. Then, stretched supine, 



292 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



and without addressing herself to any one, Kate 
Mellon began to talk again. Frag-mentary, discon- 
nected, incoherent sentences they were that she 
uttered : but, listening to them, Simnel and Frank 
Churchill managed to make out that her head was 
wandering, and that she was running through pas- 
sages of her earlier life. 

" Ready ! " she said. "All right, Dolphin ! Now, 
band ; — why don't they play up 1 No hoop lit yet ! 
Get along. Dolphin ! Ribbons now ! Stand up, 
man ! — whj' doesn't that man stand up 1 So, give 
liiTTi his head — that's it. Chalk ; more chalk ! — 
this pad's so slippery, I shall never stand on it ; 
that's better. Now we go — one, two, three ! All 
right, sir ; all right, madam ; told you I should clear 
it. Ah, Charley ! Hold the hoop lower— lower yet. 



What's he at ? I shall miss it — miss it and then — 
Slacken your curb, miss, or she'll rear ! So, that's it 
— easy does it. Courage now, — head and the heart 
up ; hand and the heel down ! Oh he's jumped 
short ! — he's over ! he's over ! " 

She gave a sharp cry, and half raised herself on 
to the pillow. The nurse was by her in an instant ; 
so were they all. Her eyes opened at first dreamily ; 
then she looked round and smiled sweetly. " Kiss 
me, dear," she said to Barbara. " Guardy ! Robert, 
Robert ! kindest, dearest Robert, I'm — going 
home !" 

Then, with tears streaming from both their eyes, 
Frank led Barbara away ; while, haggard and rigid, 
Simnel knelt by the bedside firmly clutching a 
dead hand. 




OUR JE-RUSALEM POKY. * 

[By James Patn.] 



AM a medical man, residing, as my 
wife informs her relatives in the 
South, "in the neighbourhood of" 
Edinburgh ; but in point of fact we 
are iji it, the nearest villa-residences 
being thirty streets off at the very least. 

" Alfy," said she, coaxingly, " now you 
are getting on so well, my love, don't 
you think that you ought to buy a brougham ? " 

" Certainly, if you wish it, my dear," returned 
I," pretending to misunderstand her, " buy half-a- 
dozen brooms if they are necessary, by all means, 
sweetest ; but I thought we stocked the house 
when I moved, at your request, from our flat into 
this main-door." 

" I meant a carriage, love — a brough-am ; a one- 
horse brougham would be quite enough." 

" 'Wliy not say Mr. Axle's prize ' drag ' at once 1 " 
rephed I, laughing, and lighting another cigar : 
" I'U send round Betsy in the morning, with my 
compliments, and I'll buy it of him at his own 
figure." 

"It would very much increase your practice," 
remarked Leonora, musingly ; " there's nothing 
like a carriage for a medical man, you may depend 
on that ; it takes him where skill and talent, even 
such as yours, Alfy, would never carry him." 

" Yes, love ; it sometimes takes him to prison," 
remarked I, assentingly. A slight pause here 
took place, during which I only caught one word 
of my Leonora's, and even that was not intended 
for me ; it sounded exceedingly like " Fiddle- 
stick ! " 

"Do you know how much you spend in the 
course of the year in cabs, Alfred t Notklng ! 



Oh, don't you tell me naughty fibs ; you men 
never can keep any account. What do you say, 
dear 1 I can't quite catch what you are saying. 
YoiL roalk ! Oh, you wicked man, you don't walk 
from ten to five every day, I'm sure ! " 

" My love," returned I, kissing her, " my remark 
was that there is such a thing as a 'bus." 

" Very well, Alfred," observed Leonora, with a 
sigh, and as though the discussion was closed ; 
" aU I have to say is this, that the child's ancles 
are going." 

" Going I " ejaculated I, with unaifected sur- 
prise ; "and where are they going to'? " 

"If the child's being lame for life is a joke, 
Alfred — as everything seems, indeed, to be a joke 
to you — it's all well and good, and it doesn't 
signify." 

" He's got the perambulator," observed I, with 
that callousness to shame which is the husband's 
only and very inadequate defence, the unwarranted 
mackintosh in which he vainly wraps himseK from 
the watery foe ; " he can keep his ancles from 
going in that, Leonora, surely." 

"Betsy won't push it," sobbed my wife; "she 
said .she'd see the little angel fur-fur-further first. 
Its only use now is to hold the umbrellas in the 
lobby." 

" "Then we must turn over a new leaf, and get a 
page," returned I, pleasantly. 

" You've promised me him a long time," returned 
the unrelenting Leonora ; " but I wouldn't trust 
that child to be butted about by a page — no, not 
for millions." 

" I don't think so large a temptation will ever 
be thrown in your way, my love," remarked I, 



By permission of Messrs. Chatto aud Windus. 



OUR JERUSALEM PONY. 



393 



"drily ; " say ' thousands.' But I tell you what I will 
do, Lenny ; I'll get a Jerusalem pony for him." 

" A pony ! " cried she, clapping her hands, and 
^shutting up her lachrymal ducts as if by magic ; 
" oh, that'll be delicious ! " 

"A Jerusalem pony," observed I again, wdth 
emphasis, and unwilling that an expectation 
■should be aroused of some Arab steed ; " it will 
only be a Jerusalem." 

" I don't care whether it comes from Jerusalem 
or not," replied she, in evident ignorance that 
the expression was euphuistic for a donkey ; " I'd 



proprietor, who, without giving himself an instant's 
breath for a comma, and far les.s for consideration 
of the facts, deposed — that it was middle-aged, 
steady, and well-conducted, would carry a lady 
side- ways, didn't know liow to startle. Lie clown ? 
Bless you, never ! A child might ride him a-hunt- 

ing ; while as for kicking 

It may have been that the philosophic beast was 
annoyed by so much flattery ; it may have been 
that fate herself interposed to save my precious 
infant ; or it may have been a gadfly ; but certain 
it is that at the word " kicking," that donkey 




' A SCORE OF HUMAN HEADS REGARDED ME." {Drawn h'j W. Ealstoil.) 



just as soon have it from there as from Wales or 
Shetland." 

" Ha ! " said I ; for I had nothing else to say, 
since I had not the heart, nor indeed the courage, 
to undeceive her. 

"And, Alfy, darling," observed she, as she 
trippingly left the room to communicate this piece 
■of news to her offspring, "do please, if you 
possibly can, let it be a piebald." 

" Very well, my love ; I will, if I possibly can," 
returned I ; " but I conf e.ss I do not think it very 
likely." 

On a certain Saturday evening, some time after 
this conversation, I chanced to be at a small 
village in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, which 
forms a sort of watering-place to that metropolis — 
that is to say, which boasts of a pier, a wheel-of- 
fortune, a few bathing-machines, and a stud of 
Jerusalem ponies ; and on one of these animals I 
set my eye and my mind. 

I made inquiry concerning its merits of the 



began a pas de deux with its hind-legs, the dura- 
tion and violence of which I never before saw 
equalled. " It's only his play " — began the hypo- 
critical proprietor. I congealed the remainder of 
his sentence by a glance of incredulous scorn, and 
reciuested to see some smaller specimens — infant 
donkeys, who had left off milk-diet, but had not 
yet been taught vicious tricks. Had he any such 
that he could lay his hand upon his heart and 
recommend to the father of a young family ? Had 
he any under a year old % 

Young donkeys^ Of course, he had young 
donkeys ; scores — hundreds. Under one year old ■? 
Certainly not. How could he have? Nothing 
was younger than one ? How could it be 1 

I turned away in disgust, and should have 
departed donkeyless, but that a Deus ex machind 
— a fellow belonging to the bathing-machines — 
who seemed to know this man and his humour, 
intervened, and solved the difficulty. He explained 
to him, with an elaborate patience, which should 



294 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



earn him the lately vacated place in the College 
of Preceptors, that there was a smaller measure 
of time than a year, and that a Jerusalem pony 
might be any number of months old short of a 
twelvemonth. 

I accompanied these two to the donkey 
emporium, purchased my young ass for ten 
shillings, hired a boy to lead it home by a straw- 
halter, and imagined the affair to be concluded. 

When myself and prize reached our residence in 
Paradise Row, about eleven o'clock p.m., he had, in 
addition to his four personal attendants, who had 
remained faithful, a " tail " of about one hundred 
people, including two policemen, and three or four 
highly respectable persons who wanted to go the 
other way, but who were compelled to follow the 
stream and accompany iw. 

I had forgotten, when I made my purchase, 
that om- back-green was, so to speak, down-stairs, 
and only approachable by the area steps and 
through the kitchen passage ; but often during 
the course of my triumphal march this difficulty 
had presented itself to my procrastinating mind, 
and it had now to be solved ; " How were we to 
get the Jerusalem pony into his uncomeatable 
paddock 1 " 

" Come," cried the policeman, as we vainly urged 
the animal to descend into his future residence, 
" this won't do, you know ; you must move on, 
sir; you mustn't be obstructing the street." 
" Obstructing your grandmother," cried I, pale 
with passion at the idea of the law interfering to 
oppress what it was intended to protect ; " is 
there not room in Paradise Row for this poor 
young creature as well as myself 1 Move on, 
indeed ! that is the very thing I want to do ! 
A 1, take the Jerusalem pony's fore-legs ; A 2, take 
his hind-quarters, and be very careful ; and carry 
him down those steps." 

" Hooray ! " shouted the crowd, in a state of 
wild excitement, and delighted with my com- 
manding air. 

"Take him down," cried I, in a voice of 
thunder ; " you had better take him down when I 
tell you ! " 

" Hooray ! " shouted the crowd ; " take him 
down, or down with the Peelers." 

The policemen looked at me, looked at the 
assembled thousands — for the street was filled 
by this time from end to end, and surged into the 
adjoining squares — looked at one another, and 
then proceeded to obey me without a murmur. 
They took up — they had never taken up such a 
customer before — the astonished quadruped in the 
manner I had suggested, and carried him safe and 
sound down the area steps. 

Oh, the relief of mind and body when I saw 
that Jerusalem pony deposited safely in our back- 
green 1 the gratitude with which I overwhelmed 



those guardians of public safety ! the recklessness 
of expense with which I opened bottle after bottle 
of superior beer for their refreshment ! 

I woke Leonora, to recount to her all that I had 
done, and had some difficulty to prevent her rush- 
ing to the window to look at the new arrival. 

'" I don't even know what a Jerusalem pony ?'.s," 
urged she ; " I shall be lying awake, and trying to 
picture what unusual " 

At this juncture, her doubts were set at rest for 
ever by the most tremendous braying that ever 
issued from the mouth of jackass since the days of 
Balaam ; it was exactly beneath our bed-room 
window, and sounded like a brass band composed 
of ophicleides out of repair. 

" Why, it's only a dreadful donkey, Alfred," 
cried Leonora, with just indignation. 

" It's forty donkeys," cried I, penitently, and 
stopping my ears. Never, indeed, shall I forget 
that noise, which seems even now to be ringing 
through the chambers of memory. 

We retired to rest, however — that is to say, we 
lay down and listened. Sometimes we would 
nourish a faint hope that all was over, that the 
Jerusalem pony would himself require the bless- 
ings of sleep, and become quiet ; and sometimes 
the real horrors of our situation could not be 
dispelled by any such baseless fancy. I think the 
creature must have been composing a coronach or 
lament for his absent mother or other relatives ; 
for after very short pauses, such as might have 
been given by any donkey to composition, he 
would burst forth with a torrent of discordant 
wailing of about fourteen lines in length^as far 
as we could judge— and ending in an Alexandrine. 
It was horrible from the first, and rapidly grew to 
be unbearable. At 2.30 a.m. I put on my dressing, 
gown and slippers, and taking down the rope from. 
one of the window-curtains, I sallied forth into the 
back-green. Sleep had of course been banished from 
every other inhabitant of Paradise Row as well as 
from ourselves ; a score of human heads regarded 
me from far and near, from first flat to attic, with 
interest and satisfaction. They believed in their 
foolish and revengeful hearts, I knew, that I was 
about to kaiiff the Jerusalem pony. I was not 
going to do anything of the kind. 

I approached the animal, uttering sounds such 
as, in the mouths of his late attendants, I had 
observed to give him pleasure ; but I might just as 
well have read aloud the Act for Prevention of 
Cruelty to Animals. He turned away ; he fled ;, 
he even lifted up his heels against me. Disgusted 
but not dispirited by this conduct, I pursued the 
flying beast with persevering vigour, despite the 
fluttering of my lengthy garment, and the in- 
creasing coolness of my unprotected legs. I 
caught him ; I tied up his jaws — securely, as I 
thought — with the curtain-rope ; and retired amid 



THE SPANISH ARMADA. 



295 



Tiiurmurs of applause to my apartment, leaving 
liini speechless and discomfited. 

Better, far better would it have been had I never 
attempted this. The great harmonies of Nature 
are not to be hushed by the rude hands of Man. 
Scarcely had my head touched the pillow, when the 
bray, half-stifled, pitiful, more harassing beyond 
expression than before, recommenced with hideous 
pertinacity, and increased in volume with every 
note. Presently the rope gave way, and the full 
tide of song burst forth again from that Jerusalem 
pony as the pent-up waters from an ineffectual 
dam ; while the cock, imagining, no doubt, that it 
was dawn, and accusing itself of over-sleeping, 
i)nd permitting another creature to be the first to 
salute the sun, added its shrill tribute to the 
din. 

" I'll cut that donkey's throat," cried I, leaping 
<iut of bed, and fumbling for a razor ; " the organ 
is situated so low down in his larynx that nothing 
less will stop him." 

'" Give him chloroform," cried Leonora, sarcasti- 
cally ; " you're so fond of that." 

This remark, intended to wound my professional 
feelings, was, as sometimes happens, the very best 



advice that could be given to me. I snatched up 
an enormous phial of that divine essence, and 
again rushed down to the back-green to silence the 
domestic enemy. This time I conquered ; in 
fifteen minutes — it must be confessed, after tre- 
mendous exertion — I was standing in my dressing- 
gown and slippers upon that prostrate Jerusalem 
pony like another Earey ; a victim to science, he 
reposed like a sleeping infant who has had enough 
of his bottle. 

This victory, achieved in the sight of respectable 
though sleepless myriads, has been rjuite an 
advertisement to me. My practice is increasing, 
and the child's ancles are being rapidly strength- 
ened. A breach knocked through the wall of our 
back -green permits the immediate cause of this 
prosperity to retire, after his daily labours, to a 
pasture at a considerable distance. Leonora is 
more than mollified. She has wthdrawn the 
hasty expression once made use of, about some- 
thing being no more like another thing than a 
horse-chestnut is like a chestnut horse, and con- 
fesses that a Jerusalem pony is a very good pony 
after all. Her sole regret now is that he is not a 
Xiiebald. 




who list to hear 
our noble Eng- 
land's praise. 
I teU of the thrice 
famous deeds 
she wrought in 
ancient days. 
When that great 
fleet invincible 
aganst her bore 
in vain 
The richest spoils 
of Mexico, the 
stoutest hearts 
of Spain. 
It was about the lovely close of a warm summer 

day 
There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to 
Plymouth Bay ; 
er crew hath seen Castile's black fleet beyond 
Aurigny's Isle, 
At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving 

many a mile ; 
At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial 
grace ; 



THE SPANISH AEMADA* 

[By Lord Macattlat.] 



_|TTEND, all ye | And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close 



in chase. 
Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along 

the wall ; 
The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgcumbe's 

lofty hall ; 
Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the 

coast ; 
And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland 

many a post. 
With his white hair unbonneted the stout old 

sheriff comes ; 
Behind him march the halberdiers, before him 

sound the drums ; 
His yeomen, round the market-cross, make clear 

an ample space. 
For there behoves him to set up the standard of 

her Grace. 
And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance 

the bells. 
As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon 

swells. 
Look how the lion of the sea lifts up his ancient 

crown. 
And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay 

lilies down. 



• From " Lays of Ancient Home," by permission of Messrs Longmtms and Co. 



296 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



So stalked lie when he turned to flight, on that 

famed Picard field, 
Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Cifisar's 

eagle shield : 
So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he 

turned to bay, 
And crushed and torn beneath his paws the 

princely hunters lay. 
Ho ! strike the flag-stafi' deep, Sir knight ; ho ! 

scatter flowers, fair maids ; 
Ho ! gunners, fire a loud salute : ho ! gallants, 

draw your blades ; 
Thou sun, shine on her joyously ; ye breezes, waft 

her wide ; 



The fisher left his skifi' to rock on Tamar's glitter- 
ing waves. 
The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip's 

sunless caves. 
O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaksr 

the fiery herald flew ; 
He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the- 

rangers of Beaulieu. 
Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out 

from Bristol town. 
And ere the day thi-ee hundred horse had met on. 

Clifton clown ; 
The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth ijitc: 

the night. 




" The Hokse came Spurring in," (Draioi I<y J. Nasli.) 



Our glorious Sempee Eadem, the banner of our 

pride. 
The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner's 

massy fold, 
The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty 

scroll of gold ; 
Nijht sank upon the dusky beach, and on the 

purple sea, — 
Such light in England ne'er had been, nor ne'er 

again shall be. 
From Eddy.stone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn 

to Milford Bay, 
That time of slumber was as bright and busy as 

the day ; 
For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly 

war-flame spread ; 
High on St. Michael's Mount it shone ; it shone 

on Beachy Head. 
Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each 

southern shire, 
Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twink- 
ling points of fire ; 



And saw o'erhanging Eichmond Hill, the streak of 

blood-red light. 
Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the death' 

like silence broke. 
And with one start, and with one cry, the royal 

city woke. 
At once on all her stately gates arose the answer- 
ing fires ; 
At once the loud alarum clashed from all her 

reelmg spires ; 
From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud 

the voice of fear ; 
And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a 

louder cheer : 
And from the furthest wards was heard the rush 

of hurrying feet. 
And the broad streams of flags and pikes rushed 

down each roaring street : 
And broader still became the blaze, and loudor 

still the din. 
As fast from every village round the horse cama 

spurring in : 



WHAT I WENT THROUGH TO GET HER. 



297 



And eastward straight, from wild Blackheatli, the 

warlike errant went, 
And raised in many an ancient hall the gallant 

squires of Kent. 
Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those 

bright couriers forth ; 
High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they 

started for the North ; 
And on, and on, without a pause, untired they 

bounded still, 
All night from tower to tower they sprang ; they 

sprang from hill to hill, 
Till the proud Peak unfurled the flag o'er Darwen's 

rocky dales. 
Till like volcanoes flared to Heaven the stormy 

hills of Wales, 



Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's 

lonely height, 
Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's 

crest of light, 
Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's 

stately fane. 
And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the 

boundless plain ; 
Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln 

sent, 
And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide 

vale of Trent ; 
Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's 

embattled pile, 
And the red glare of Skiddaw roused the burghers 

of Carlisle. 



WHAT I WENT THEOUGH TO GET HEE. 

[By Lt.-Colonel Hodoh.] 




' AST year was an eventful one for me : 
I had a touch of the gout, the wrong 
horse won the Derby, my principal 
tenant insisted on my helping him to 
drain, and I lost a lawsuit. So that 
when I heard that Miss Sarah Potts 
was likely to inherit the property of her 
^ paternal uncle, Colonel Sir George Potts, late 
governor of Semetary Island, it occurred to me 
that I had danced much and carried flirtation to 
the very verge of proposal to that young lady, 
whose beauty had always fascinated, while her 
good temper had charmed me. Indeed, she had 
■only needed this touch from the philosopher's stone 
to render her irresistible ; so I packed up my port- 
manteau and started for Scarborough, where the 
Potts family were then residing. 
Veni, vidi, vici ! 

" But," whispered the dearest and most sensible 
of girls, as I wrapped her opera-cloak round her 
pearly shoulders, on the most eventful of nights, 
" oh, Charles, beware how you offend my uncle, 
and, above all things, humour my aunt !" 

If I pride myself upon anjrthing, it is my power 
of making myself agreeable to everybody, of 
whatever age, sex, or condition — indeed, I have 
reason to suppose that some of my friends con- 
sider me actually stupid, so nicely can I adapt 
my conversation to my company — and it was 
with a confident heart and firm hand that I rang 
the bell of Colonel Potts's lodgings on the follow- 
ing morning. 

The door opened with a suddenness which 
startled me, and I found myseK opposite a six- 
feet footman, tall, stifi", and erect as a Potsdam 
2 L 



grenadier, who went, at my desire, to see if his 
master was at home, and then returned with an 
affirmative answer, and heralded me up-staks. 

As I entered the apartment, I heard a rustle, 
and saw the door of an inner room close, which 
distracted my thoughts for a moment, so that 
it required a violent effort of will to concentrate 
my attention on the object before me. The object 
before me was a stout, short gentleman of about 
fifty, with white hair, white whiskers, and very 
shaggy white eye-brows — a chilling uniformity of 
colour, somewhat relieved by his having yellows 
instead of whites to his eyes, while the same 
delicate primrose tinge spread over the surface 
of his cheeks and forehead, the whole countenance 
being warmed by the rich rosy tint of his nose. 
He wore grey trousers, and a frock-coat not 
buttoned so closely as altogether to hide his 
fine linen shirt-frill and buff waistcoat. He 
carried his watch in his trouser-fob, had a great 
bunch of seals jingling and swaying about his 
epigastric regions, wore a heavy gold double 
eye-glass round his neck, choked himself up in 
a satin stock with a buckle behind it, and was 
altogether of the " old school." 

" I knew Miss Potts formerly, sir," said I, plung- 
ing in at once ; " indeed, I may say, I was intimate 
with her family ; so, seeing her here, and learning 
that she was at present residing with you, I have 
taken the liberty of calling " 

" No liberty 'at all, sir ; as a friend of my late 
brother, I am delighted to make your acquain- 
tance. Pray, be seated ; Lady Potts will be down 
directly." 

And we began to converse about a variety 



298 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



of topics, on some of whicli I found myself 
expressing very singular opinions, for, in my 
anxiety to bring tlie conversation round to Sarah, 
I said I hardly knew what, till at last, fearing 
he would form a bad opinion of me, I apologised 
for my inattention, and told him right out that 
I came as a suitor for his niece's hand. 

" Quite right, Mr. Pans ; you have acted in a 
very honourable and straightforward manner. 
Yes, you have done well to apply first to the com- 
manding officer for leave to " 

" A-ahem ! " coughed some one in the next 
room ; for a folding-door which spread across 
from wall to wall, but which did not fit very 
closely to the floor or ceiling, was the only par- 
tition separating the apartments, through which 
sound circulated with such ease that a poor 
lady could not even clear her throat without 
being overheard. 

" By-the-bye," continued the colonel, "as our 
conference will probably be a longer one than I at 
first supposed, I will just finish a little pressing 
matter I was engaged upon when you came in, 
and retm-n. I shall not be long." He left the 
room by the outer door, and presently after I 
heard that of the next open and shut, and then 
voices. 

" Whish — whish — shish — wish — shish. " 

"Well, my dear, what the dickens am I to 



say 



v 



" Hush — sh — sh — sh. Whish — shish — whish." 

" Wiin\'urwurrerwur," &c. &c. 

The colonel had gone to his commanding-ofiicer 
for orders. In about ten minutes he came back. 

"Pardon me," he .said, "for keeping you wait- 
ing so long. Now for this matter we were speak- 
ing of. First, let me explain to you how far my 
authority extends over my niece. She can, of 
course, marry whom she pleases ; but if I do not 
approve of the match, I should not consider myself 
bound to do anything for her ; if, on the other 
hand, I and — and Lady Potts, were pleased with 
her choice, she would continue to hold the place 
she at present occupies in my will, and I should 
pay doA^ni as her marriage-portion £,«." 

The voice went on, but what it uttered was 
inaudible to my mind for the next five minutes. 
The sum represented by x so far exceeded my 
expectations, that I was lost, bewildered, breath- 
less with anxiety at the bare idea of losing my 
dearest Sarah : never had my imagination painted 
her charms in such glowing colours. 

" And now," the colonel was saying, when I 
had somewhat recovered, "I should like to ask 
you a few cjuestions. It is the fashion now-a- 
days to depreciate the advantages of birth and 
blood ; to me they are of vital importance : I 
consider that there is as much difi'erence between 
a gentleman and a plebeian, as between a race- 



horse and a donkey. I should like to hear a few 
details about your family." 

While I was yet descanting on the merits of 
my forefathers, a dark object, observable through 
the slit at the bottom of the partition, was sud- 
denlj' removed, the sunbeams gleamed through 
in one unbroken line, and, by a singular coinci- 
dence. Lady Potts immediately afterwards entered 
the room. She was a tall, bony woman, with a 
Roman nose, large under-jaw, muddy green eyes, 
sallow complexion, and low forehead. She was 
dressed in a magnificent velvet gown, wonderful 
black hair, a small lace-cap, and chains, rings, and 
bracelets costly enough to make a garrotter howl 
at the thought that she never ventured out on 

foot after dusk. Her age was about Whither 

are you hurrying me, pen indiscreet ! respect the 
weakness of a weaker sex, and state ambiguously 
that her age was forty — more or less. The lady 
was stately, and alluded much to her late ele- 
vated position — in the colonies, I mean, not be- 
hind the door. 

" The weather is very warm," said I. 

"Well, I suppose it is," she replied ; "but after 
so many years' residence in a tropical climate, I 
do not feel the heat so mirch as others." 

"Ah! no, you would not. The scenery about 
here is very pretty." 

" Is it i I dare say. Everything was so bright 
and on so gigantic a scale in Semetary Island, that 
these muddy waves, stunted trees, and little 
hillocks seem hardly worth looking at." 

" Oh, no doubt. Ah, I think I saw you at the 
Assembly Rooms last night ; very fine, are they 
notl" 

She smiled loftUy, and gently shook her head. 

" I am no judge. My ball-room at the palace,' 
&c. &c. 

It was very hard work, but I at length suc- 
ceeded in making a favourable impression ; for 
Lady Potts made a sign to her Sir, who, being 
well trained, immediately took up his cue. 

"Well," said he, "to return to the matter you 
have called here to speak about : we must know 
a little more of you before we can make any 
promise. We leave this the day after to-morrow, 
and return to Norfolk, to be in time for 
the 1st of September. Come down and help 
me to murder the partridges. Are you a good 
shot 1 " 

****** 

I dressed myself as fast as I could, in hopes of 
getting a word with Sarah before dinner; and 
the dearest girl anticipated my wish, for, on 
opening the drawing-room door, I saw she was 
there alone. 

Time was precious, so the one minute devoted 
to rapture being over, I said, "Adored one, can 
you give me a hint ? " 



WHAT I WENT THROUGH TO GET HER. 



299 



" Yes, you made a favourable impression at 
Scarborough, and will easily get on ; at least, I 
always do. Tliey both spoil me. Never mind a 
little roughness ; they mean nothing. Aunt is 
the dearest, most lovable, kindest of women, so 
long as she has her own way, and is not contra- 
dicted. She is rather a bigot, so you had better 
put your liberality in your pocket; and she thinks 
a good deal of her family — was a Miss Mont- 
gomery, and brought this estate to uncle." 

" Ah ! and Sir George ? " 

" WeU, you must be very good, and keep your 
temper. Uncle is a dear, dear man, but rather 
inclined to order people about. You see, aunt 
rules him, so he likes to rule others. His temper 
is somewhat violent at times, but he soon comes 
round, if not opposed ; and then he tries to atone 
for what he has said or done while angry. Oh, 
I almost forgot ; above all things, be very 
punctual ; if you are ever late for breakfast or 
dinner, I will not answer for the consequences ; 
and is there anything else ? yes, if you could take 
snuff, it would please him. There goes the 
bugle !" And to the tune of " O, the Roast Beef 
of Old England," Sir George and Lady Potts 
entered the room. 

"Welcome, Mr. Pans, to Montgomery Hall," 
said the lady, graciously according me her hand. 

" How d'ye do ■? glad to see you," said the 
colonel. " Ready for the birds to-morrow % Have 
a pinch 1. " 

Mindful of the final hint I had received from 
Sarah, I accepted the oifer, and tried to drop the 
snuff while pretending, with much noise and ap- 
parent enjoyment, to draw it up into my nose ; but 
a few grains more volatile than the rest insisted 
on making their way in, and I found it necessary 
to blow that organ. 

" Niff, niff. Bless my soul, how disgusting ! 
Niff, niff. What can it be 1 Why, it is your 
handkerchief ! It's musk ! Young man, you are 
offensive ; come with me," said Sir George. 

I am not over-patient by nature, and felt all the 
blood in my body fly to my face at this insult ; 
but I thought of the stake I was playing for, 
swallowed my anger, and followed him. 

"Throw the thing down. John, take that 
handkerchief away," said he, when we had reached 
the hall. " This way, Mr. Pans ; " and he led me 
into his study, opened a folding washing-stand, 
poured water into the basin, and said, pointing to 
it, " Wash ! " 

I obeyed him, and we returned to the drawing- 
room. 

" My lady is served," the butler presently 
announced ; and as he did not speak Uterally, 
but metaphorically, I offered my arm. 

Wlien the ladies had withdra'wn, the colonel 
ensconced himself in an easy-chair, and began 



pumping me in so ob\'ious a manner that I had 
no difficulty in flowing to his entire satisfaction. 
At the end of about a bottle, he threw his napkin 
over his head, and said — 

" Ring when you want more claret ; when you 
have had enough, go to the ladies, and make no 
noise." 

And presently he snored. 

When I entered the drawing-room, I found 
Sarah asleep on the sofa, and Lady Potts hanging 
over a basket adorned with pink silk. 

" Was it a poor little dear suffering angel, den ! 
Was it a pretty creature, with its little brown 
eyes ! " 

" What a beautiful dog ! " I exclaimed. " Is it 
ill?" 

"Oh, very, very ill. Poor dear Flora, she has 
quite lost her appetite, she who always enjoyed 
her food so ! She has eaten nothing to-day but the 
wing of a chicken and a few macaroons." 

" If you will allow me to examine her, I may be 
of some service ; I am used to dogs. Ah ! I see, 
has short breath, finds it difiicult to stand. My 
dear Lady Potts, if this dog is not attended to, she 
wUl die." 

" Oh, Mr. Pans. Poor Flora : what shall I 
do ? " 

" AVell, I think I could save her if she were left 
entirely in my hands ; but, above all things, nr 
one must feed her but myself." 

" Thank you, dear Mr. Pans ; I wUl give direc 
tions. Oh, I shall be ever grateful to you if you 
should prove the blessed instrument of restoring 
my sweet doggy to health again ! " 

Lady Potts went to the other end of the room 
for some work, and I whispered to Sarah, " WUl 
that do ? " 

" Ah, you dreadful hypocrite ; it is quite shock- 
ing ! I shall never know when to believe you in 
earnest," she replied, looking half -frightened, half- 
amused. 

" It is very unpleasant. Nothing but the hope 
of winning you could make me stoop to such a 
course of proceeding." 

" O yes ; I know it was necessary : indeed, it 
was I who advised it. But whatever my uncle 
and aunt's foibles, and however they behave to 
others, they are most kind to me, and it pains me 
to see their weak points so drawn out." 

The colonel came in, yawning, had a cup of tea, 
and then told me to get the backgammon-board, 
and play a bit with him ; which I did, playing 
as badly as possible, and never taking him up 
but once, when I could not help it ; on which 
occasion he got into so violent a passion, that I 
was glad of my previous forbearance ; but as I 
managed to let him gammon me that very game, 
he soon recovered his — what I suppose he called— 
good-humour. 



300 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



Soon the sounds of the bugle were once more 
heard in the hall. 

"There is half-past ten," cried Sir George. 
" Good-night, Mr. Pans. Now go to your bed- 
room. If you want to read, you will find plenty 
of books, papers, magazines, &c. in the library ; 
and if you wish to smoke, you may." 

Dressing - gowned, slippered, cigared, easy- 
chaired, paper-knifed, and Edinburgh Reviewed, 
I was reposing after my labours, dangers, and 
sufiferings, when there cams a knock at the door. 

" Who is there ] " 

" Orders, sir." 

"Orders! What is that? Come in." 

A man-servant entered with a book bound in 
red, and having a brazen clasp, which he opened, 
and pointed out to me a particular page, from 
which I read : — 

Montgomery Hall, 
" August 31, 18—. 

" Mr. Pans, of Lincolnshire, gent., arrived here 
this day on a visit. — The family will assemble for 
breakfast to-morrow morning, at 8 a.m., in the 
library. — Colonel Sir George Potts and Mr. Pans 
will go out shooting at 9.30, lunching at Batt's 
Copse at 1, and returning to dinner at 5.30 p.m. — 
Miss Potts will ride Mabel at 2 p.m. to-morrow, 
William attending her on Merriman. — The cook 
will attend Colonel Sir George Potts in his study 
immediately after breakfast. — Lady Potts's spaniel. 
Flora, is placed under the care of Mr. Pans, until 
further orders." 

" Fine morning," said I to a groom, who was 
emitting that pecviliar sibilation common to stable- 
men, and which must be so galling to the horses at 
Astley's if they partake of the sensibilities of 
biped actors. 

" Tis-s-s-s-s— is-s-s-s-s— tis-s-s-s. Ees, Sir, tis-s- 
s-s." 

" Leave off hissing, my lad, and listen to me for 
a moment, will you 1 Your lady wants that dog 
to get well ; you know what is the matter with 
it." 

"Ees." 

" Then you know it only wants less victuals and 
more running about." 

"Ees." 

" Well, then, can you keep your mouth shut . 

" Ees " (a broad grin). 

" Then here is half a sovereign for you." 

" Thankee, sir " (a broader). 

" Don't you give her anything to eat to-day, and 
whenever you come into the stable, make her move 
about. I will take her for a walk now. Have 
you got a collar and a piece of string 1 " 

He soon produced those articles, also a bit of 
soap. 

" A good idea," said I ; and in spite of the tears 



and supplications of the patient, we administered 
a saponaceous pill. 

" I saw you from my window carrying Flora 
for a walk this morning ; — how kind of you ! " 
said Lady Potts, as I entered the breakfast-room 
at two minutes before eight ; and her eyes were 
more eloquent than her lips. 

Punctually at the appointed minute, Colonel 
Potts, myself, a gamekeeper, and four dogs started 
off under a blazing sun for the nearest stubble- 
field, which we traversed, I on the right. Sir 
George on the left, the gamekeeper in the rear, 
and the dogs scouring before us ; but as there- 
were no birds, we arrived at the other end guilt- 
less of blood. Directly we entered the second 
field, however, which was also stubble, a dog on 
the right, that is, immediately in front of me,, 
made a dead point. Cocking both locks, I was. 
advancing cautiously, when I heard hasty foot- 
steps, a panting and pufl5.ng, and finaUy, words, 
spoken in a loud whisper. 

" Stop, stop, — you stop ! " so I stopped, and th&. 
colonel advanced in front of me. It was very 
trying, but Sarah must not be lost for a shot. Up 
got the covey ; bang, bang, went tSir George, 
visibly a yard above them. 

" Mark them, Thomas ; I am sure that old one is. 
hit hard ! " 

If this was the case, the " old one " took his- 
punishment like a hero, for he certainly showed 
no signs of it, as he skimmed away with his spouse- 
and family. 

" I always miss my first shot," growled the-- 
colonel, as he reloaded. 

The next point was on his beat fairly enough.. 
Again the covey rose ; again he blazed away with 
both barrels harmlessly. Two of the birds, how- 
ever, who were lazy, or greedy, or weak on the 
wing, delayed getting up with the rest, from whom 
they had strayed considerably to the right,, 
and were now frightened up by the report. I 
am only a middling shot ; but they were so. 
young, and flew so slowly, that I knocked them 
both over. 

" What do you fire at my wounded birds for ? " 
screamed Sir George, foaming with rage. 

" Your wounded birds, sir 1 " 

" Yes, sir, my wounded birds ! As neat a shot as. 
ever I made in my life — one to each barrel YoiL 
could not beat that yourself, Thomas— eh?" 

" It was a fair shot, your honour." 

" Do you hear that, sir ? Do you hear what- 
the gamekeeper says 1 You are a jealous shot, sir ; 
and I hate a jealous shot like a blank." 

"But, Sir George," I expastulated, "you mis- 
take ; I thought the rest of the covey were withirt 
range, and fired at them." 

" Then you own those to be my birds ? " 

"Certainly." 



WHAT I WENT THROUGH TO GET HER. 



301 



" Oil, ah, hum ! Pick them up, Thomas." 
Thomas was very busy lacing one of his boots ; 
when he rose, his face was crimson — from stoop- 
ing, I suppose. 

Next shot he had, the colonel really did hit a 
bird, which put him into such good-humour that 
iie did not claim the next I bagged • and so 



himself down by the side of a spring, which 
bubbled up in the centre of a nice shady dell, 
he lit a cheroot, and bade me go on alone with 
the gamekeeper ; when it was time to go home, we 
found him in the same place, fast asleep. 

So we went on, the old people liking me, and J 
disliking them, more and more every day : Sarah 




■ V HAT DO YOU FIRE AT MT WOUNDED BIRDS FOR? ' 



we went on till Umcheon, the birds being so plen- 
tiful, tame, and weak on the wing, that we made 
a pretty fair bag — the colonel hitting about twice 
out of every five times, and I allowing him to 
claim some of my victims. 

In the afternoon, I had better sport ; for the 
coveys being now scattered, the shots became 
more frequent, while the colonel, upon whom the 
sun and bottled porter had taken effect, was less 
ardent than he had been in the morning. Indeed, 
at last he declared himself " done ; " and flinging 



growing more and more be&utiful and cheerful as 
cause for anxiety seemed to diminish ; and Flora 
rapidly regaining health and symmetry under a 
course of biscuit and exercise. Indeed, at the end 
of a week, I allowed an interview between dog 
and mistress ; and so delighted was the lady 
with the recovery of her favourite, that I obtained 
that very evening my first earnest of ultimate 
success. 

"I wish to speak to you before you give the 
orders," said Lady Potts to Sir George, when we 



302 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



broke up for the night ; and when the order-book 
with the brazen clasp came round to my bedroom 
door, I read the following sentence : 

" Mr. Pans will attend Miss Sarah Potts in her 
ride at 2.30 p.m., to-morrow." 

Before pheasant-shooting began, I returned to 



London, like a good bill, accepted. Ere the last 
long- tail had fallen, my banker's account rose from 
two figures to four, and I was the blest proprietor 
of the angelic being who is now taking such a 
preposterous time about putting on her — I mean 
my — bonnet. 




MASTER AND MAN. 

[By Thomas Crofton Croker.] 



jILLY MAC DANIEL was once as 
likely a young man as ever shook 
<g^p^ his brogue at a pattern, emptied a 
ftd)^ quart, or handled a shillelagh; fearing for 
nothing but the want of drink, caring for 
nothing but who should pay for it, and 
thinking of nothing but how to make fun 
over it : drunk or sober, a word and a blow 
was ever the way with Billy Mac Daniel ; and 
a mighty easy way it is of either getting into or 
ending a dispute. More is the pity that, through the 
means of his thinking, and fearing, and caring for 
nothing, this same Billy Mac Daniel fell into bad 
company ; for surely the good people (the fairies) 
-are the worst of all company any one coidd come 
across. 

It so happened that Billy was going home one 
very clear frosty night, not long after Christmas. 
The moon was round and bright : but although it 
was as fine a night as heart could wish for, he felt 
pinched with the cold. " By my word," chattered 
Billy,. " a drop of good liquor would be no bad 
thing to keep a man's soul from freezing in him ; 
and I vrish I had a full measure of the best." 

" Never wish it twice, Billy," said a little man in 
a three-cornered hat, bound all about with gold 
lace, and with great silver buckles in his shoes, so 
big that it was a wonder how he could carry them ; 
and he held out a glass as big as himself, filled with 
as good liquor as ever eye looked on or lip tasted. 

" Success, my little fellow," said Billy Mac 
Daniel, nothing daunted, though well he knew the 
little man to belong to the (jood people ; " here's 
your health, any way, and thank you kindly, no 
matter who pays for the drink : " and he took the 
glass and drained it to the very bottom without 
ever taking a second to it. 

" Success," said the little man ; " and you're 
heartily welcome, Billy ; but don't think to cheat 
me as you have done others ; out with your purse 
and pay me like a gentleman." 

" Is it I pay you % " said Billy ; " could I not just 
take you up and put you in my pocket as easily as 
-a blackberry'?" 

" Billy Mac Daniel," said the Little man, getting 



very angry, " you shall be my servant for seven 
years and a day, and that is the way I will be 
paid ; so make ready to follow me." 

When Billy heard this he began to be very sorry 
for having used such bold words towards the little 
man ; and he felt himself, yet could not tell how, 
obliged to follow the little man the livelong night 
about the country, up and down, and over hedge 
and ditch, and through bog and brake without 
any rest. 

When morning began to dawn, the little man 
turned round to him and said, " You may now go 
home, Billy, but on your peril don't fail to meet 
me in the Fort-field to-night ; or if you do, it may 
be the worse for you in the long run. If I find 
you a good servant you will find me an indulgent 
master." 

Home went Billy Mac Daniel ; and though he 
was tired and wearied enough, never a wink of 
sleep could he get for thinking of the Little man : 
and he was afraid not to do his bidding, so up he 
got in the evening, and away he went to the Fort- 
field. He was not long there before the little man 
came towards him and said, " Billy, I want to go 
a long journey to-night; so saddle one of my 
horses, and you may saddle another for yourself, 
as you are to go along with me, and may be tired 
after your walk last night." 

Billy thought this very considerate of his master, 
and thanked him accordingly. "But," said he, 
j " if I may be so bold, sir, I would ask which is the 
j way to your stable, for never a thing do I see but 
i the Fort here, and the old tree in the corner of the 
i field, and the stream running at the bottom of the 
hill, with the bit of bog over against us." 

" Ask no cpiestions, Billy," said the little man, 
" but go over to that bit of bog and bring me two 
of the strongest rushes you can find." 

Billy did accordingly, wondering what the little 
man would be at ; and he picked out two of the 
stoutest rushes he could find, with a little bunch 
of brown blossoms .stuck at the side of each, and 
brought them back to his master. 

" Get up, Billy," said the little man, taking one 
of the rushes from him, and striding across it. 



MASTER AND MAK 



303 



"Where shall I get up, please your honour?" 
said Billy. 

" Why, upon horseback, like me, to be sure," said 
the little man. 

" Is it after making a fool of me you'd be 1 " said 
BiUy, " bidding me get a-horseback upon that bit 
of a rush ? May be you want to persuade me that 
the rush I pulled but a while ago out of the bog 
there is a horse." 

" Up ! up ! and no words," said the little man, 
looking very angry, " the best horse you ever rode 
was but a fool to it." So Billy, thinkmg all this 
was in joke, and fearing to vex his master, 
straddled across the rush : " Borram ! Borram ! 
Borram ! " cried the little man three times (which 
in English means to become great), and Billy did 
the same after him : presently the rushes swelled 
up into fine horses, and away they went full speed ; 
but Billy, who had put the rush between his legs 
without much minding how lie did it, found him- 
self sitting on horseback the wrong way, which 
was rather awkward, with his face to the horse's 
tail ; and so quickly had his steed started off with 
him, that he had no power to turn round, and 
there was therefore nothing for it but to hold on 
by the tail. 

At last they came to their journey's end, and 
stopped at the gate of a fine house : " Now, Billy," 
said the little man, "do as you see me do, and 
follow me close ; but as you did not know your 
horse's head from his tail, mind that your own 
head does not spin round until you can't tell 
whether you are standing on it or on your heels." 

The little man then said some queer kind of 
words, out of which Billy could make no meaning ; 
but he contrived to say them after him, for all 
that ; and in they both went through the keyhole 
of the door, and through one keyhole after another, 
xmtil they got into the wine-cellar, which was 
well stored with all kinds of wine. 

The little man fell to drinking as hard as he 
could, and Billy, nowise disliking the example, did 
the same. " The best of masters are you, surely," 
said Billy to him, "no matter who is the next; 
and well pleased will I be with your service, if you 
continue to give me plenty to drink." 

" I have made no bargain with you," said the 
little man, " and will make none ; but up and 
follow me." Away they went, through keyhole 
after keyhole ; and each mounting upon the 
rush which he left at the hall door, scampered oif, 
kicking the clouds before them like snowballs, as 
soon as the words " Borram ! Borram ! Borram ! " 
had passed their lips. 

When they came back to the Fort-field, the little 
man dismissed Billy, bidding him to be there the 
next night at the same hour. Thus did they go on, 
night after night, shaping their course one night 
here and another night there, sometimes north and 



sometimes east, and sometimes south, until there 
was not a gentleman's wine-cellar in all Ireland 
they had not visited, and could tell the flavour of 
every wine in it as well — ay, better — than the 
butler himself. 

One night when Billy Mao Daniel met the little 
man as usual in the Fort-field, and was going to the 
bog to fetch the horses for their journey, 
his master said to him, "Billy, I shall want another 
horse to-night, for maybe we may bring back more 
company with us than we take." So Billy, who now 
knew better than to question any order given to 
him by his master, brought a third rush, much 
wondering who it might be that would travel back 
in their company, and whether he was about to 
have a feUow servant. " If I have," thought Billy, 
" he shall go and fetch the horses from the bog 
every night : for I don't see why I am not, every 
inch of me, as good a gentleman as my master." 

Well, away they went, Billy leading the third 
horse, and never stopped until they came to a snug 
farmer's house in the county of Limerick, close 
under the old castle of Carrigogunniel, that was 
built, they say, by the great Brian Boru. Within 
the house there was great carousing going forward, 
and the little man stopped outside for some time 
to listen ; then turning round all of a sudden, 
said, " BiUy, I will be a thousand years old to- 
morrow." 

" God bless us ! sir," said BUly, " will you 1 " 

"Don't say those words again," said the little 
man, " or you will be my ruin for ever. Now, 
Billy, as I will be a thousand years in the world 
to-morrow, I think it is full time for me to get 
married." 

" I think so, too, without any kind of doubt at 
all," said Billy, " if ever you mean to marry," 

" And to that purpose," said the little man, 
" have I come all the way to Carrigognmniel ; for 
in this house, this veiy night, is young Darby 
Biley going to be married to Bridget Rooney ; and 
as she is a tall and comely girl, and has come of 
decent people, I think of marrying her myself, and 
taking her off with me." 

" And what wdl Darby Riley say to that? " said 
Billy. 

" SUence I " said the Kttle man, putting on a 
mighty severe look. " I did not bring you here 
with me to ask questions ; " and without holding 
further argument, he began saying the queer words 
which had the power of passing him through the 
keyhole as free as air, and which Billy thought 
himself mighty clever to be able to say after him. 

In they both went ; and for the better viewing 
the company, the little man perched himself up 
as nimbly as a cock-sparrow upon one of the big 
beams which went across the house over all their 
heads, and Billy did the same upon another facing 
him ; but not being much accustomed to roosting in 



304 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



such a place, his legs hung down as untidy as may- 
be, and it was quite clear he had not taken pattern 
after the way in which the little man had bundled 
himself up together. If the little man had been a 
tailor all his life, he could not have sat more con- 
tentedly upon his haunches. 

There they were, both master and man, looking 
down upon the fun that was going forward ; and 
under them were the priest and piper — and the 
father of Darby Riley, with Darby's two brothers 
and his uncle's son — and there were both the 



that the priest would have done so, as he ought, if 
he had done his duty, no one wished to take the 
word out of his mouth, which, unfortunately, was 
pre-occupied with pig's head and greens. And 
after a moment's pause the fun and merriment 
of the bridal feast went on without the pious bene- 
diction. 

Of this circumstance both Billy and his master 
were no inattentive spectators from their exalted 
stations. " Ha ! " exclaimed the little man, throw- 
ing one leg from under him with a joyous flourish, 




An Unexpected Arriyal. (Drawn ly W. Ralston.) 



father and the mother of Bridget Rooney, and proud 
enough the old couple were that night of their 
daughter, as good right they had — and her four 
sisters, with brand-new ribbons in their caps, and 
her three brothers, all looking as clean and as 
clever as any three boys in Munster — and there 
were uncles and aunts, and gossips and cousins 
enough besides to make a full house 6f it — and 
plenty was there to eat and drink on the table for 
every one of them if they had been double the 
number. 

Now it happened, just as Mrs. Rooney had 
helped his reverence to the first cut of the pig's 
head which was placed before her, beautifully 
bolstered up with white savoys, that the bride 
gave a sneeze which made every one at table start, 
but not a soul said, " God bless us ! " All thinking 



and his eye twinkled with a strange light, whilst 
his eyebrows become elevated into the curvature 
of Gothic arches- " Ha ! " said he, leering down at 
the bride, and then up at Billy, " I have half of 
her now, surely. Let her sneeze but tvnce more, 
and she is mine, in spite of priest, mass-book, and 
Darby Riley." 

Again the fair Bridget sneezed ; but it was so 
gently, and she blushed so much, that few except 
the little man took, or seemed to take, any notice ; 
and no one thought of saying " God bless us ! " 

Billy all this time regarded the poor girl with a 
most rueful expression of countenance ; for he could 
not help thinking what a terrible thing it was for 
a nice young girl of nineteen, with large blue eyes, 
transparent skin, dimpled cheeks, suffused with 
health and joy, to be obliged to marry an ugly 



THE SHANDON BELLS. 



305 



little bit of a man, who was a thousand years old, 
barring a day. 

At this critical moment the bride gave a third 
sneeze, and Billy roared out, with all his might, 
" God bless us 1 " Whether this exclamation 
resulted from his soliloquy, or from the mere force 
of habit, he never could tell exactly himself ; but 
no sooner was it uttered than the little man, his 
face glowing with rage and disappointment, sprang 
from the beam on which he perched himself, and 
shrieking out in the shrill voice of a cracked bag- 
pipe, " I discharge you from my service, Billy 
Mac Daniel — take that for your wages," gave poor 



Billy a most furious kick in the back, which sent 
his unfortunate servant sprawling upon his face 
and hands right in the middle of the supper 
table. 

If Billy was astonished, how much more so was 
every one of the company into which he was 
thrown with so httle ceremony : but when they 
heard his story, Father Cooney laid down his 
knife and fork, and married the young couple out 
of hand with all speed ; and Billy Mac Daniel 
danced the Einka at their wedding, and plenty did 
he drink at it too, which was what he thought 
more of than dancing. 



THE SHANDON BELLS. 

[Trom " The Eeliques of Father Prout."] 

Sa66ntn pnngo 
Jpuncta plnngo 
Solcmnin dango. 

— Inscrip. on an old Bell. 




ITH deep affection 
And recollection 
I often think of 
Those Shandon 
BeUs, 
Whose sound so 

wild would 
In the days of child- 
hood, 
Fling round my 
cradle 
Their magic spells. 
On this I ponder. 
Where'er I wander. 
And thus grow fonder. 
Sweet Cork, of thee : 
With thy bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 
Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells chiming 
Full many a cUme in, 
ToUing sublime in 

Cathedral shrine, 
While at a glibe rate 
Brass tongues would vibrate — 
But all their music 

Spoke naught like thine ; 
For memory dwelling 
On each proud swelling 
Of the belfry knelling 

Its bold notes free, 
Made the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 



The pleasant waters 
Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells tolling 
Old " Adrian's Mole " in, 
Their thunder rolling 

From the Vatican, 
And cymbals glorious 
Swinging uproarious 
In the gorgeous turrets 

Of Notre Dame ; 
Biit thy sounds were sweeter 
Than the dome of Peter 
Flings o'er the Tiber, 

Pealing solemnly ; — 
Oh ! the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

There's a bell in Moscow, 
While on tower and kiosko 
In Saint Sophia 

The Turkman gets, 
And loud in the air 
Calls man to prayer 
From the tapering summit 

Of tail minarets. 
Such empty phantom 
I freely grant them ; 
But there is an anthem 

More dear to me — 
'Tis the bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 



2 M 



306 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAE AUTHORS. 



ONE STRUGGLE. 

[Prom " The Black Speck." By P. W. EObinsok.J 




■^AJIES STRAHA.N let himself in with 
his pass-key, and strode into the little 

i-gi||imiaj front parlour, where he found his father 

Wfffl^ cowering over the fire as though he were 
'•^^'-^ very cold. Mr. Strahan senior looked 
round with a lack-lustre air as his son entered the 
room, but he betrayed slowly some interest in 
James, as the change in his son was suggested to 
an intellect much bemuddled that evening. 

" What's the matter ? " he said at last, and in a 
very nervous fashion. 

" What should be the matter 1 " was the re- 
joinder, as James Strahan threw himself into an 
easy-chair by the fire ; " did you ever know any- 
thing the matter with me t " 

" As regards health, no. Take you altogether," 
said his father in reply, " and you have been an 
exceedingly robust man. I only wish I had one- 
twentieth part of your robustness. I should not 
be the awful sufferer I am. No food agrees with 
me." 

" And so you drijik," added James Strahan, 
moodily. 

" I must be kept up somehow. A little stimu- 
lant, now and then — and in moderation, James 
— seems to pull me together wonderfully," Avas the 
reply. 

"To pull you to pieces, I should have said 
yesterday," was the son's answer ; " but perhaps 
you are right. Perhaps you are right," he repeated 
to himself. 

Mr. Strahan gazed anxiously at his son. James 
had been a very different kind of son to him 
lately, had treated him even respectfully, and as a 
son should do, he thought, and this was a return to 
the old manner, and a something worse than the 
old manner, unless that ugly scowl of James stood 
for nothing that particular evening. He had seen 
a look akin to that in the sad and sulky days, 
but never had it been so darksome, or so " pro- 
nounced " as now, and " What's the matter ? " came 
again by way of feeble questioning from the thin 
lips. 

" The matter is, father, that I'm not going to 
marry Sissie Eston," was the frank confession. 

"Not going to marry her," repeated the father, 
" well, well, perhaps it's as well. I am glad you 
have altered your mind." 

" She has altered hers." 

" Oh ! indeed." 

"And that amounts to the same thing, I 
suppose." 

" Precisely the same thing, James," assented his 
father, rubbing one hand over the other ; " and all's 



well that ends well. You wouldn't have made a 
good husband— that is, what I call a nice sort of 
husband." 

" No ? Why not 1 " 

" You are better as a single man," explained Mr. 
Strahan senior. " Y''ou make, I may say, quite a 
charming single man— at times, and when in an 
amiable mood, and having it all your own way, I 
mean — but a married man cannot expect to have 
it all his own way, and then dissensions arise. 
Now, when your poor mother was alive I " 

" That'll do," interrupted his son. 

" Oh ! certainly," said Mr. Strahan, submissive 
at once, and cowed by James Strahan's brusque- 
ness. 

He looked askance at his son, and then directed 
his attention to the fire again. After a while he 
got up, coughed feebly, and took his hat from under 
the chair. 

" Where are you going ? " asked James. 

" I have promised to look up a friend to-night. 
And there's the books to balance again. And 
there's " 

" Sit down. I want to talk to you for a little 
while longer," said James Strahan. 

" Very well. As you please, James," i-eplied 
the father, resuming his seat, but regarding his- 
son with an extra degree of nervousness. Strange 
as James Strahan's manner was that night, the 
nervousness of James Strahan's father was still 
more remarkable. He had turned of an' ashen 
grey, as if afraid of what might follow next — as if 
terribly distrustful of his own son, and of what 
that son might accuse him. 

" I hope you are not going to make a scene. I'm 
not myself this evening," he whimpered ; " the cold 
weather has affected my chest, I think." 

" Drink has affected you," answered James ; 
" but I am not going to preach to you about it any 
more." 

"Thank you, thank you. I am exceedingly 
obliged to you," answered his father. 

" I told you, I think, that Sissie and I were. 
not going to be married 1 " said the son, half 
vacantly. 

" Bless my soul, James — yes. Just this instant ." 

" Ah ; I thought I did. But I'm a little con- 
fused now," and the broad, bony hand of the over- 
looker was passed across his massive forehead, 
" and all about a chit of a girl. It's amazing, even 
to me." 

" Did you particularly want to tell me all this 
over again 1 " inquired Mr. Strahan senior, 
deferentially. 



ONE STRUGGLE. 



307 



"Yes." 

" Oil ! tliank you. And," he added after a pause, 
" nothing else 1 " 

" Yes — a great deal more, man." 

" Oh ! good — what is it f " and Mr. Strahan's 
teeth began to chatter, and his knees to knock 
together. 

"I have met Dinah to-night." 

" You must not believe a word she says about 
anything or anybody. A dreadful woman — a most 
unreliable authority on any matter. Half -mad — 
half-drunk always, James," cried the father, " and 
not to be depended upon. A bad habit of borrow- 
ing sixpences, too. Shocking ! " 

James went on with his one theme. 

" And she told me the plain truth of it all. It 
■was Victor she was breaking her heart about. She 
was in love with him all the time." 

" Dinah in love with Victor 1 Gracious ! " 

" You idiot," shouted the unfilial James. " I am 
talking about the girl I was going to marry." 

" Oh ! beg your pardon," replied the father ; 
"yes, you are confused. Your grammar is con- 
fused, too, if I may be allowed to say as much in 
your own house." 

" So, when people talk, as they will talk," con- 
tinued James, "say it was all their mistake." 

" What was 1 " 

" Their mistake that I was going to marry her 
— it was your younger son. The favourite son 
— the lucky one — the handsome one, whom 
everybody likes. Don't you see 1 " cried James 
Strahau. 

" Yes — yes, I think I see." 

" It was not credible a gentle, timid, pretty girl, 
like Sissie, should take to a rough brute like me," 
said James Strahan. " I was always hated every- 
where. I was hard, unyielding, bitter." 

" A little bitter, perhaps, and always hard, but 
—is there any occasion to mention this just 
now?" 

" Are you thirsty 1 " was the quick question 
liere. 

"Well, now yoii ask me, perhaps I am some- 
what dry." 

" You have drink in that cupboard ! You are 
not obliged to go out such an awful night as this 
for it. It is always handy at your elbow — like the 
devil ! " 

Mr. Strahan senior coughed behind his hand. 

" I — I thought you were kind enough to mention 
that you would not preach at me to-night," he 
said. 

" I am not going to preach. Get your drink out, 
and be happy." 

" Eeally ? Keally now? " exclaimed the astonished 
parent. 

"Yes-really." 

" Well, if you don't mind," he said ; " if you see 



it in that light, knowng what a lot of support I 
need in my iufirraity and trouble " 

" What trouble have you 1 " 

" Oh, don't ask me. Life's all trouble, James, 
every bit of it." 

"Yes — I believe that," was the answer; "but 
drink's good for trouble, eh V 

" Well — one forgets, and " 

" That's it," shouted his son again, " one forgets ! 
That is what I want to do, for brooding on a 
wrong makes a man mad. Get your drink out, 
father." 

" JUat J " 

" Get your drink out," he cried again, and with 
renewed excitement. 

" For you, James ! Do you mean for you ? " 
gasped Mr. Strahan. 

"Yes." 

" Bless my soul and body ! " he ejaculated. " I 
don't think — I don't see — I don't know why — I 
don't recommend it. I never said I did, James." 

And the old man sat down wholly bewildered, 
and with a strange look of terror on his face. This 
was a new phase of temptation to which he was 
wholly unaccustomed, and he did not see the end 
of it, — before him, only a few steps away, and so 
like the beginning of a new calamity, of the direst 
tragedy of life, that he looked on amazed and 
horror-stricken, as a man might do haunted by a 
ghost . 

" You have had trouble," said James Strahan, 
ri.sing, and opening the cupboard door ; " and you 
have set it all aside. This," taking out the bottle 
which he found there, " has taught you forgetful- 
ness, set you in a new mould, made your heart 
light in the midst of other woes. And if it has 
made you a wreck — what of that ? And if it has 
shortened your days — what of that 1 What is length 
of life to the unhappy, but a longer lease of misery ] 
Sit down, and drink with me." 

" I — I can't," was the husky answer back. 

" Ay, but you must," cried the son. " You are 
my father, and the son looks to the father for his 
example. And the father's life is the example 
always, he being the God on earth to his chUdren. 
Do you see that?" 

James Strahan struck the table with his hand, 
and the old man screamed with affright. This was 
a madman surely — not his son at alL Why did he 
talk and rave in this manner ? 

"Therefore, your good health, old gentleman,' 
said James. 

He poured out the liquid from the bottle, but 
with a hand that shook like his weak father's ; he 
filled the glass and raised it to his lips ; he would 
have drunk the contents in his recklessness, in his 
defiance of his better self, had the glass not been 
knocked suddenly from his hand, and it had 
become his turn to be surprised and alarmed. It 



308 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



was his father who had rushed at him, and dashed 
the glass from him, cutting his shrivelled hands 
badly with the sudden action ; it was old James 
Strahan cUnging round him, sobbing and implor- 
ing ; it was the father, grief-stricken and drink- 
shattered, who was kneeling at his feet, and clasp- 
ing his strong Hmbs with shaking arms. 

" Oh, don't drink ! " he cried. " Oh, don't you 
drink, Jamie, for the good God's sake — not you ! " 

" What's this 1 — what's this 1 " asked James 
Strahan. 

" Not my one brave son — not you, to come 
down to such a Kfe as mine, and to such a thing 
as I am," shrieked the father. " Oh, no, no, no, 
not you ! " 

James Strahan was appalled; he had not ex- 
pected this. From the lips of this poor old 
drunkard to issue forth the homily which struck 
home and daunted him, was in itself a miracle. 

" You must not touch it, Jamie," the father im- 
plored. " It is only you we have to look to, when 
the troubles come. You have been so clever and 



strong, and we have been so weak. Don't go, like 
us poor wretches, aU adrift. Keep up — keep 
always like yourself. Oh, don't give way — don't 
drink ! see what I have come to ! " 

The crisis was past. The temptation to forget 
— it had never been to drink — was over, and James 
Strahan was sobered for all time. In the great 
grief of his father, in his strange remorse, he saw 
that life's duties had not closed for him, and that 
there was the good work to his hand, and for the 
good cause. No, he would not break down be- 
cause his pride had been hurt, and a woman had 
turned from him ; he was a better man already, 
and the weak being grovelling at his feet in 
despair had been the agent to lead him back to 
himself. 

He raised his father with strange tenderness, and 
led him back to his seat, where the old man sat 
shuddering violently until the son's hand rested 
on the thin grey hairs. 

"It is all over," he said, in his father's ears, "I 
i shall never drink now." 



GIL BLA-S' ADVENTURES AT PENNAFLOE. 

[By Alain Hisi Le Sage.] 



ARRIVED in safety at Pennaflor ; and 
halting at the gate of an inn that made 
a tolerable appearance, I had no sooner 
alighted than the landlord came out and 
received me with great civihty ; he untied 
my portmanteau with his own hands, and, throwing 
it on his shoulders, conducted me into a room, 
while one of his servants led my mule into the 
stable. This innkeeper, the greatest talker of the 
Asturias, and as ready to relate his own affairs, 
without being asked, as to pry into those of another, 
told me that his name was Andrew Corcuelo ; that 
he had served many years in the army, in quality of 
a Serjeant, and had quitted the service fifteen 
months ago to marry a damsel of Castropol, who, 
though she was a little swarthy, knew very well 
how to turn the penny. 

He said a thousand other things which I could 
have dispensed with the hearing of; but, after 
having made me his confidant, he thought he had 
a right to exact the same condescension from me ; 
and, accordingly, he asked me from whence I 
came, whither I was going, and what I was. I was 
obliged to answer article by article, because he 
accompanied every question with a profound bow, 
and begging me to excuse his curiosity with such 
a respectful air that I could not refuse to satisfy 
him in every particular. This engaged me in a 
long conversation with him, and gave me occasion 



to mention my design, and the reason I had for 
disposing of my mule, that I might take the 
opportunity of a carrier. He approved of my in- 
tention, though not in a very succinct manner, for 
he represented all the troublesome accidents that 
might befall me on the road, recounted many 
dismal stories of travellers, and I was afraid would 
never have done ; he concluded at length, how- 
ever, telling me that if I had a mind to sell my 
mule, he was acquainted with a very honest jockey 
who would buy her. I assured him he would 
oblige me by sending for him, upon which he went, 
in '-aiest of him with great eagerness. 

It was not long before he returned with his man,, 
whom he introduced to me as a person of exceed- 
ing honesty ; and we went into the yard all to- 
gether. 

There my mule was produced, and passed and 
re-passed before the jockey, who examined her- 
from head to foot, and did not fail to speak very 
disadvantageously of her. I own there was not 
much to be said in her praise ; but, however, had 
it been the Pope's mule he woidd have found 
some defects in her. He assured me she had all 
the faults a mule could have, and, to convince me 
of his veracity, appealed to the landlord, who, 
doubtless, had his reasons for supporting his 
friend's assertions. 

" Well," said this dealer, with an air of indifier- 



GIL BLAS' ADVENTURES AT PENNAFLOR. 



309 



ence, " liow much money do you expect for this 
•wretched animal 1 " 

After the eidogium he had bestowed on her, and 
the attestation of Signor Corcuelo, whom I be- 
lieved to be a man of honesty and understanding, 
I would have given my mule for nothing, and, 
therefore, told him I would rely on his integrity, 



who was to set out next day for Astorga. When 
eveiything was settled between us, I returned to 
the inn ivith Corcuelo, who, by the way, began to 
recount the carrier's history. He told me every 
circumstance of his character in town ; and, in 
short, was going to stupefy me again with his in- 
tolerable loquacity, when a man of pretty good 




" He proceeded on this with the same viGOirrt." {Drawn bj W. SiniH.) 



bidding him appraise the beast in his own con- 
science, and I would stand to the valuation. Upon 
this he assumed the man of honour, and replied 
that, in engaging his conscience, I took him on 
the weak side. In good sooth, that did not seem 
to be his strong side ; for, instead of valuing her 
at ten or twelve pistoles, as my uncle had done, 
he fixed the price at three ducats, which I accepted 
with as much joy as if I had made an excellent 
bargain. 

After having so advantageously disposed of my 
mule, the landlord conducted me to a carrier. 



I appearance xirevented that misfortune, by accosting 
him with great civUity. I left them together, and 
went on, without suspecting that I had the least 
concern in their conversation. 

When I arrived at the inn, I called for supper, 
and, it being a meagre day, was fain to put up 
with eggs. While they were getting ready, I 
made up to my landlady, whom I had not seen 
before. She appeared handsome enough, and 
withal so sprightly and gay, that I should have 
concluded (even if her husband had not told me 
.'o) that hor house was pretty well frequented. 



310 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



When the omelet I had bespoken was ready, I sat 
down to table by myself ; but had not swallowed 
the first morsel when the landlord came in, fol- 
lowed by the man who had stopped him in the 
street. This cavalier, who wore a long sword, and 
seemed to be about thirty years of age, advanced 
towards me with an eager air, saying — 

" Mr. Student, I am informed that you are that 
Signor Gil Bias of Santillane, who is the flambeau 
of philosophy and ornament of Ovieclo ! Is it 
possible that you are that mirror of learning, that 
.sublime genius, whose reputation is so great in 
this country? You know not," continued he 
(addressing himself to the innkeeper and his 
wife), "you know not what you possess ! You 
have a treasure in your house ! Behold, in this 
young gentleman, the eighth wonder of the 
world 1 " Then, turning to me, and throwing his 
arms about my neck, "Forgive," cried he, "my 
transports. I cannot contain the joy your pre- 
sence creates." 

I could not answer for some time, because he 
locked me so close in his arms that I was almost 
suffocated for want of breath ; and it was not till 
I had disengaged my head from his embrace that 
I replied — • 

" Signor Cavalier, I did not think my name was 
known at Pennafior." 

" Not known 1 " replied he, in his former strain. 
" "We keep a register of all the celebrated names 
within twenty leagues of us. You, in particular, 
are looked upon as a prodigy, and I don't at all 
doubt that Spain will one day be as proud of you 
as Greece was of the Seven Sages." 

These words were followed by a fresh hug, 
which I was forced to endure, though at the risk 
of strangulation. With the little experience I 
had, I ought not to have been the dupe of his 
professions and hyperbolical compliments. I ought 
to have known, by his extravagant flattery, that 
he was one of those parasites who abound in every 
town, and who, when a stranger arrives, introduce 
themselves to him, in order to fill their bellies at 
his expense. But my youth and vanity made me 
judge cpite otherwise ; my admirer appeared to 
me so much of a gentleman that I invited him to 
take a share of my supper. 

" Ah, with all my heart," cried he ; " I am too 
much obliged to my kind stars for having thrown 
me in the way of the illustrious Gil Bias, not to 
enjoy my good fortune as long as I can. I own I 
have no great appetite," pursued he ; " but I will 
sit down to bear you company, and eat a mouthful 
purely out of complaisance." 

So saying, my panegyrist took his place right 
over against me, and, a cover being laid for him, 
attacked the omelet as voraciously as if he had 



fasted three whole days. By his complaisant 
beginning I foresaw that one dish would not last 
long, and therefore ordered a second, which they 
dressed with such despatch that it was served up 
just as we — or rather he — had made an end of the 
first. He proceeded on this with the same vigour, 
and found means, without losing one stroke of his 
teeth, to overwhelm me with praises during the 
whole repast, which made me very well pleased 
with my sweet self. He drank in proportion to 
his eating ; sometimes to my health, sometimes to 
that of my father and mother, whose happiness in 
having such a son as I he could not enough 
admire. In the meantime, he plied me with wine, 
and insisted upon my doing him justice, while I 
toasted health for health — a circumstance which, 
together with his intoxicating flattery, put me 
into such good humour that, seeing our second 
omelet half devoured, I asked the landlord if he 
had no fish in the house. Signor Corcuelo, who, 
in all likelihood, had a fellow-feeling with the 
parasite, replied, "I have a delicate trout, but 
those who eat it must pay for the sauce : 'tis a 
bit too dainty for your palate, I doubt." 

"What do you call too dainty?" said the 
sycophant, raising his voice. "You're a wise- 
acre indeed ! Know that there is nothing m 
this house too good for Signor Gil Bias de 
Santillane, who deserves to be entertained like a 
prince." 

I was pleased at his laying hold of the landlord's 
last words, in which he prevented me, and, feeling 
myself offended, said, with an air of disdain, " Pro- 
duce this trout of yours. Gaffer Corcuelo, and give 
yourself no trouble about the consequence." This 
was what the innkeeper wanted : he got it ready, 
and served it up in a trice. At sight of this new 
dish I could perceive the parasite's eyes sparkle 
with joy, and he renewed that complaisance — I 
mean for the fish— which he had already shown 
for the eggs. At last, however, he was obliged to 
give out, for fear of accident, being crammed to 
the very throat. Having, therefore, eaten and 
drunk enough, he thought proper to conclude the 
farce by rising from table and accosting me in 
these words : 

" Signor Gil Bias, I am too well satisfied with 
your good cheer to leave you without offering you 
an important advice, which you seem to have great 
occasion for. Henceforth beware of flattery, and 
be upon your guard against everybody you do not 
know. You may meet with other people inclined 
to divert themselves Avith your credulity, and per 
haps to push things still farther ; but don't be 
duped again, nor believe yourself, though they 
should swear it, the Eighth Wonder of the 
World." 



A FATAL ATTACHMENT. 



311 






A FATAL ATTACHMENT. 

[By W. M. TBACKEEiY.] 




I FTEE iny papa's death, as lie left me 
\\ no money, and only a little land, I put 
S my estate into an auctioneer's hands, 



and determined to amuse my solitude 
with a trip to some of our fashionable 
watering-places. My house was now a 
desert to me. I need not say how the 
departure of my dear parent, and her children, left 
me sad and lonely. 

Well, I had a little ready money, and, for the 
estate, expected a couple of thousand pounds. I 
had a good military-looking person ; for though I 
had absolutely cut the old North- Bungays (indeed, 
after my affair with Waters, Colonel Craw hinted 
to me, in the most friendly manner, that I had 
better resign), though I had left the army, I still 
retained the rank of Captain : knowing the 
advantages attendant upon that title, in a water- 
ing-place tour. 

Captain Stubbs became a great dandy at Chel- 
tenham, Harrogate, Bath, Leamington, and other 
places. I was a good whist and billiard player ; 
so much so, that in many of these towns the 
people used to refuse, at last, to play with me, 
knowing how far I was their superior. Fancy my 
surprise, about five years after the Portsmouth 
affair, when strolling one day up the High Street, 
in Leamington, my eyes lighted upon a young 
man, whom I remembered in a certain butcher's 
yard, and elsewhere — no other, in fact, than 
Dobble. He, too, was dressed en niilitaire, with a 
frogged coat and spurs ; and was walking with a 
showy-looking, Jewish-faced, black-haired lady, 
glittering with chains and rings, with a green 
bonnet, and a bird of Paradise — a lilac shawl, a 
yellow gown, pink silk stockings, and light blue 
shoes. Three children, and a handsome footman, 
were walking behind her, and the party, not seeing 
me, entered the Royal Hotel together. 

I was known, myself, at the Royal, and calling 
one of the waiters, learned the names of the lady 
and gentleman. He was Captain Dobble, the son 
of the rich army clothier, Dobble (Dobble, Hoblile, 
and Co., of Pall Mall) ; the lady was a Mrs. 
Manasseh, widow of an American Jew, living 
quietly at Leaming-ton with her children, but 
possessed of an immense property. There's no 
use to give one's self out to be an absolute pauper, 
so the fact is, that I myself went everywhere with 
the character of a man of very large means. My 
father had died, leaving me immense sums of 
money, and landed estates — ah ! I was the gen- 
tleman then, the real gentleman, and everybody 
was too happy to have me at table. 



Well, I came the next day, and left a card for 
Dobble, with a note : he neither returned my visit,. 
nor answered my note. The day alter, however, I 
met him with the widow, as before ; and, going up 
to him, very kindly seized him by the hand, and 
swore I was — as really was the case — charmed to 
see him. Dobble hung back, to my surprise, and 
I do believe the creature would have cut me, if he 
dared ; but I gave him a frown, and said — 

" What, Dobble, my boy, don't you recollect old 
Stubbs, and our adventure with the butcher's 
daughters, ha?" 

Dobble gave me a sickly kind of grin, and said,, 
" Oh ! ah ! yes ! It is — yes ! it is, I believe, Cap- 
tain Stubbs." 

" An old comrade, madam, of Captain Dobble's,. 
and one who has heard so much, and seen so much,, 
of your ladyship, that he must take the liberty of 
begging his friend to introduce him." 

Dobble was obliged to take the hint ! and Cap- 
tain Stubbs was duly presented to Mrs. Manasseh ;, 
the lady was as gracious as possible : and when, at 
the end of the walk, we parted, she said, "she- 
hoped Captain Dobble would bring me to her 
apartments that evening, where she expected a 
few friends." Everybody, you see, knows every- 
body at Leamington ; and I, for my part, was well 
known • as a retired officer of the army ; who, on 
his father's death, had come into seven thousand a 
year. Dobble's arrival had been subsequent to 
mine, but putting up, as he did, at the Royal 
Hotel, and dining at the ordinary there with the 
widow, he had made her acquaintance before I 
had. I saw, however, that if I allowed him to 
talk about me, as he could, I should be compelled 
to give up all my hopes and pleasures p.t Leaming- 
ton ; and so I determined to be short with him. 
As soon as the lady had gone into the hotel, my 
friend Dobble was for leaving me likewise ; but I 
stopped him, and said, " Mr. Dobble, I saw what 
you meant just now : you wanted to cut me, 
because, forsooth, I did not choose to fight a duel 
at Portsmouth ; now, look you, Dobble, I am no- 
hero, but Pm not such a coward as you — and 
you know it. You are a very different man to 
deal with from Waters ; and / ivill fight this 
time." 

Not, perhaps, that I would : but after the busi- 
ness of the butcher, I knew Dobble to be as great 
a coward as ever lived : and there never was any 
harm in threatening, for you know you are not 
obliged to stick to it afterwards. My words had 
their effect upon Dobble, who stuttered, and 
looked red, and then declared he never had the 



312 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



slightest intention of passing me by ; so we be- 
came friends, and his mouth was stopped. 

He was very thick with the widow : but that 
lady had a very capacious heart, and there were a 
number of other gentlemen who seemed equally 
smitten with her. " Look at that Mrs. Manasseli," 
said a gentleman (it was droll, he was a Jew, too), 
sitting at dinner by me : " she is old and ugly, and 
yet because she has money, all the men are fling- 
ing themselves at her." 

" She has money, has she % " 

" Eighty thousand pounds, and twenty thousand 
for each of her children. I know it for a fact" 
said the strange gentleman. " I am in the law, 



frightened, and fairly quitted the field. Ha ! ha '. 
I'm dashed if I did not make him believe that 
Mrs. Manasseh had murdered her last husband. 

I played my game so well, thanks to the infor- 
mation that my friend the lawyer had given me, 
that, in a month, I had got the widow to show a 
most decided partiality for me. I sat by her at 
dinner ; I drank with her at the Wells ; I rode 
with her ; I danced with her ; and at a picnic to 
Kenilworth, where we drank a good deal of cham- 
pagne, I actually popped the question, and was 
accepted. In another month, Robert Stubbs, Esq., 
led to the altar Leah, widow of the late Z. 
Manasseh, Esq., of St. Kitts ! 




'Three children and a handsome footman were walking behind her." (Drawji by W. Katsion.) 



and we, of our faith, you know, know pretty well 
what the great families amongst us are worth." 

" Who was Mr. Manasseh ? " 

"A man of enormous wealth— a tobacco-merchant 
— West Indies ; a fellow of no birth, however ; and 
who, between ourselves, married a woman that is 
not much better than she should be. My dear sir," 
whispered he, " she is always in love. Now it is 
with that Captain Dobble : last week it was some- 
body else ; and it may be . you next week, if — 
ha! ha! ha! — you are disposed to enter the lists." 

" I wouldn't, for my part, have the woman with 
twice her money." 

What did it matter to me, whether the woman 
was good or not, provided she was rich ! My 
course was quite clear. I told Dobble all that this 
gentleman had informed me, and being a pretty 
good hand at making a story, I made the widow 
appear so bad, that the poor fellow was quite 



We drove up to London in her comfortable 
chariot ; the children and servants following in a 
post-chaise. I paid, of course, for everything ; 
and until our house in Berkeley Square was 
painted, we stopped at Steven's Hotel. 

My own estate had been sold, and the money 
was lying at a bank, in the city. About three days 
after our arrival, as we took our breakfast in the 
hotel, previous to a visit to Mrs. Stubbs's banker, 
where certain little transfers were to be made, a 
gentleman was introduced, who, I saw at a glance, 
was of my wife's persuasion. 

He looked at Mr.s. Stubbs, and made a bow. 
" Perhaps it will be convenient to you to pay this 
little bill, one hundred and fifty-two poundsh 1 " 

" My love," says she, " wiU you pay this 1 It is a 
trifie which I had really forgotten." " My soul !" 
said I, " I have reaUy not the money in, the house." 



A FATAL ATTACHMENT. 



313 



" Vel, denn, Captnin Shtubbsh," says he, "I must 
do my duty — and arrest you — here is the writ ! 
Tom, keep the door ! " My wife fainted — the 
children screamed, and I — fancy my condition, as 
I was obliged to march off to a sponging house, 
along with a horrid sheriff's oflficer. 

I shall not describe my feelings when I found 
myself in a cage in Cursitor Street, instead of that 
fine house in Berkeley Square, which was to have 
been mine as the husband of Mrs. Manasseh. 
What a palace ! — in an odious, dismal street, lead- 
ing from Chancery Lane — a hideous Jew boy 
opened the second of three doors ; and shut it 



bankers. But was the loss of her £80,000 nothing^ 
Was the destruction of my hopes nothing 1. — The 
accursed addition to my family of a Jewish wife 
and three Jewish children, nothing? And all these 
I was to support out of my two thousand pounds. 
I had better have stopped at home, with my 
mamma and sisters, whom I really did love, and 
wlio produced me eighty pounds a year. 

I had a furious interview witli Mrs. Stubbs : 
and when I charged her, the base wretch ! Avith 
cheating me, like a brazen serpent, as she was, she 
flung back the cheat in my teeth, and swore I had 
swindled lier. Why did I marry her, when she 




' Here is the writ." {Bravn hj W. RaJ>-t'>ii.) 



when j\Ir. Nabb and I (almost fainting) had 
entered : then he opened the third door, and then 
I was introduced to a filthy place, called a coffee- 
room, which I exchanged for the solitary comfort 
of a little dingy back-parlour where I was left for 
a while to brood over my miserable fate. Fancy 
the change between this and Berkeley Square ! 
Was I, after all my pains, and cleverness, and per- 
severance, cheated at last f Had this ]\lr.s. 
Manasseh been imposing upon me, and were the 
words of the wretch I met at the table tVlwte at 
Leamington only meant to mislead me and take 
me ml I determined to send for my wife, and 
know the whole truth. I saw at once that I had 
been the victim of an infernal plot, and that the 
carriage, the house in town, the AVest India for- 
tune, were only so many lies which I had blindly 
believed. It was true the debt was but a hundred 
and fifty pounds : and I had two thousand at my 
2n 



might have had twenty others ? She only took 
me, she said, because I had twenty thousand 
pounds. I had said I possessed that sum ; but in 
love, you know, and war, all's fair. 

We parted quite as angrily as we met ; and I 
cordially vowed that when I had paid the debt 
into which I had been swindled by her, I would 
take my £2,000, and depart to some desert island ; 
or, at the very least, to America, and never sto her 
more, or any of her Israelitish brood. There was 
no use in remaining in the sponging-house (for I 
knew that there were such things as detainers, 
and that where ]\Irs. Stubbs owed a hundred 
pounds, she might owe a thousand), so I sent for 
Mr. Nabb, and tendering him a cheque for £150, 
and his costs, requested to be let out forthwith. 
" Here, fellow," said I, " is a cheque on Child s 
for your paltry sum." 

" It may be a shech on Shild's," sayc j\Ir. Nabb, 



314 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



■' but I should be a baby to let you out on such a 
paper as that." 

" Well," said I, "Child's is but a step from this; 
you may go and get the cash — just giving me an 
acknowledgment." 

Nabb drew out the acknowledgment with great 
punctuality, and set off for the bankers', whilst I 
prepared myself for departure from this abomin- 
able prison. 

He smiled as he came in. " Well," said I, " you 
have touched your money ; and now, I must tell 
you, that you are the most infernal rogue and 
extortioner I ever met with." 

" O no, Mishtcr Shtubbsh," says he, grinning 
still; " dere is som greater roag dan me — mosh 
greater." 

" Fellow," says I, " don't stand grinning before a 
gentleman ; but give me my hat and cloak, and 
let me leave your filthy den." 

" Slitop, Shtubbsh,'' says he, not even Mistering 
me this time, "here ish a letter, vicli you had 
better read." 

I opened the letter; something fell to the 
ground : it was my cheque. 

The letter ran thus : " Messrs. Child and Co. 
present their compliments to Captain Stubbs, and 
regret that they have been obliged to refuse 
payment of the enclosed, having been served 
this day with an attachment by Messrs. Solo- 
monson and Co., which compels them to retain 
Captain Stubbs's balance of £2,010 lis. Od. 
until the decision of the suit of Solomonson v. 
Stubbs. 

"Fleet Street." 

" You see," says Mr. Nabb, as I read this dread- 
ful letter, " you see, Shtubbsh, dere vas two debts, 
— a little von, and a big von. So dey arrested you 
for the little von, and attashed your money for de 
big von." 

Don't laugh at me for telling this story ; if you 
knew what tears are blotting over the paper as I 
write it ; if you knew that for weeks after I was 
"more like a madman than a sane man — a madman 
in the Fleet Prison, where I went, instead of to 
the desert island. What had I done to deserve it 1 
Hadn't I always kept an eye to the main chance '? 
Hadn't I lived economically, and not like other 
young men ? Had I ever been known to squander 
or give away a single penny ! No ! I can lay my 
hand on my heart, and, thank Heaven, say. No ! 
Why — why was I punished so 1 

Let me conclude this miserable history. Seven 
months— my wife saw me once or twice, and then 
dropped me altogether— I remained in that fatal 
place. I wrote to my dear mamma, begging her 
to sell her furniture, but got no answer. All my 
old friends turned their backs upon me. My actioi; 
went against me— I had not a penny to defend it. 
Solomonson proved my wife's debt, and seized my 



two thousand pounds. As for the detainer against 
me, I was obliged to go through the court for the 
relief of insolvent debtors. I passed through it, 
and came out a beggar. But, fancy the malice of 
that wicked Stiffelkind ; he appeared in court as 
my creditor for £3, with sixteen years' interest, at 
five per cent., for a pair of top-boots. The old 
thief produced them in court, and told the whole 
story — Lord Cornwallis, the detection, the pump- 
ing, and all. 

Commissioner Dubobwig was very funny about 
it. " So Doctor Swishtail would not pay you for 
the boots, eh, Mr. Stiffelkind t " 

" No ; he said, ven I ask him for payment, dey 
was ordered by a yong boy, and I ought to have 
gone to his schoolmaster." 

" What, then, you came on a bootless errand, eh, 
sir?" (A laugh.) 

" Bootless, no sare. I brought the boots back 
vid me ; how de devU else could I show dem to 
you 1 (Another laugh.) 

" You've never soled them since, Mr. Tickle- 
shins?" 

" I never vood sell dem ; I svore I never vood, 
on porpus to be revenged ondat Stobbs." 

" What, your wound has never been healed, eh ? " 

" Vat do you mean vid your bootless errants 
and your soling and healing ! I tell you I have 
done vat I svore to do ; I have exposed him at 
school, I have broke off a marriage for him, ven 
he vould have had twenty tousand pound, and 
now I have showed him up in a court of justice ; 
dat is vat I ave done, and dat's enough." And 
then the old wretch went down, whilst everybody 
was giggling and staring at poor me — as if I was 
not miserable enough already. 

" This seems the dearest pair of boots you ever 
had in your life, Mr. Stubbs," said Commissioner 
Dubobwig, very archly, and then he began to 
inquire about the rest of my misfortunes. 

In the fulness of my heart I told him the whole 
of them ; how Mr. Solomonson the attorney had 
introduced me to the rich widow, Mrs. JIanasseh, 
who had eighty thousand pounds, and an estate in 
the West Indies. How I was married, and 
arrested on coming to town, and cast in an 
action for two thousand pounds, brought against 
me by this very Solomonson for my wife's 
debts. 

" Stop," says a lawyer in the court. " Is this 
woman a showy black-haired woman, with one 
eye 1 very often drunk, with three children — ■ 
Solomonson, short, with red hair ? " 

" Exactly so," says I, with tears in my eyes. 

"That woman has married three men within 
the last two years. One in Ireland, and oue at 
Bath. A Solomonson is, I believe, her hus- 
band, and they both were off for America ten 
days ago." 



THE BOAT RACE. 



315 



" But -why did you not keep your £2,000 ? " said 
the la-\\'yer. 

" Sir, they attached it." 

" ' well, we may pass you : you have been 



unlucky, Mr. Stubbs, but it seems as if the biter 
had been bit in this aflfair." 

" No," said Mr. Dubobwia;, " Mr. Stubbs is the 
victim of a FATAL ATTACHMENT" 



THE BOAT EAOE. 

[By W. C. Bennett.] 




HERE, win the 
cup and you 
shall have my 
- girl. 

;: I won it, Ned; 
and you shall 
win it too. 
Or wait a 
twelvemonth. 
Books — for 
ever books ! 
Nothing but 
talk of poets 
and their 
rhymes ! 
I'd have you, 
boy, a nran, 
with thews 
and strength 

To breast the world with, and to cleave your way, 
No maudlin dreamer, that wUl need her care. 
She needing yours. There — there — I love you Ned, 
Both for your own, and for your mother's sake ; 
So win our boat-race, and the cup, next month. 
And you shall have her." With a broad, loud 

laugh, 
A jolly trimnph at his rare conceit. 
He left the subject ; and across the wine, 
We talk'd — or rather all the talk was Ms — 
Of the best oarsmen that his youth had known, 
Both of his set, and others — Clare, the boast 
Of Jesus', and young Edmonds, he who fell. 
Cleaving the ranks at Lucknow ; and, to-day, 
There was young Chester might be named with 

them. 
" Why, boy, I'm told his room is lit with cups 
Won by his sculls. Ned, if he rows, he wins ; 
Small chance for you, boy." And again his laugh. 
With its broad thunder, turn'd my thoughts to 

gaU : 
But yet I mask'd my humour with a mirth 
Moulded on his ; and, feigning haste, I went. 
But left not. Through the garden-porch I turn'd, 
But on its sun-flecked seats, its jessamine shades 
Trembled on no one. Down the garden's paths 
Wander'd my eye, in rapid quest of one 
Sweeter than all its roses ; and across 



Its gleaming lilies and its azure oeiis. 

There, in the orchard's greenness, down beyond 

Its sweetbriar hedge-row, found her — found hei' 

there, 
A summer blossom that the peering sun 
Peep'd at through blossoms, — that the summer airs 
Waver'd down blossoms on, and amorous gold, 
Warm as that rain'd on Danae. With a step. 
Soft as the sun-light, down the pebbled path 
I pass'd, and, ere her eye could cease to count 
The orchard daisies, in some summer mood 
Dreaming (was I her thought 1), my murmur'd 

"Kate" 
Shock'd up the tell-tale roses to her cheek. 
And lit her eyes with starry lights of love 
That dimm'd the daylight. Then I told her all, 
And told her that her father's jovial jest 
Should make her mine, and kissed her sunlit tears 
Away, and all her little trembling doubts. 
Until hope won her heart to happy dreams, 
And all the future smiled with happy love. 
Nor, till the still moon, in the purpling East, 
Gleam'd through the twilight, did we stay our talk. 
Or part, with kisses, looks, and whisper'd words 
Eemembered for a lifetime. Home I went. 
And in my college rooms what blissfid hopes 
Were mine ! — what thoughts, that still'd to happy 

dreams ; 
Where Kate, the fadeless summer of my life, 
Made my years Eden, and lit up my home 
(The ivied rectory my sleep made mine). 
With little faces, and the gleams of curls, 
And baby crows, and voices twin to hers. 
Oh, happy night ! Oh, more than happy dreams ! 
But with the earliest twitter from the eaves, 
I rose, and, in an hour, at Clifford's yard. 
As if but boating were the crown of life. 
Forgetting Tennyson, and books, and rhymes. 
Even my new tragedy upon the stocks, 
I thronged my brain with talks of lines and curves, 
And all that makes a wherry sure to win. 
And furbish'd up the knowledge that I had, 
Ere study put my boyhood's feats away, 
And made me bookworm. All that day my hand 
Grew more and more familiar 'nith the oar. 
And won by slow degrees, as reach by reach 
Of the green river lengxhen'd on my sight, 



316 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



Its by-laid cunning back ; so, day by day, 

From when dawn touch'd our elm-tops till the 

moon 
Gleam'd through the slumbrous leafage of our 

lawns, 
I flashed the flowing Tsis from my oars, 
And dream'd of triumph and the prize to come ; 
And breathed myself, in sport, one after one, 
Against the men with whom I was to row, 
Until I feared but Chester— him alone. 
So June stole on to July, sun by sun. 
And the day came ; how well I mind that day ! 
Glorious with summer, not a cloud abroad 



O hope, was hope a prophet truth alone 1 
There was a murmur in my heart of " Yes," 
That sung to slumber every wakening fear 
That still would stir and shake me with its dread. 
And now a hush was on the wavering crowd 
That sway'd along the river, reach by reach, 
A grassy mile, to where we were to turn — 
A barge moor'd midstream, fluSh'd with fluttering 

flags. 
And we were ranged, and, at the gun, we went, 
As in a horse-race, all, at first, a-crowd ; 
Then thinning slowly, one by one dropp'd ofi". 
Till, rounding the moor'd mark, Chester and I 




' I WKDSS HIS AHSWERING HAND." 



To dim the golden greenness of the field,s. 
And all a happy hush about the earth. 
And not a hum to stir the drowsing noon. 
Save where along the peopled towing-paths, 
Banking the river, swarm'd the city out, 
Loud of the contest, bright as humming-birds. 
Two winding rainbows by the river's brinks. 
That flush'd with boats and barges, silken-awn'd 
Shading the fluttering beauties of our balls, 
Our college toasts, and gay with jest and laugh. 
Bright as their champagne. One, among them all. 
My eye saw only ; one, that morning, left 
With smiles that hid the terrors of my heart. 
And spoke of certain hope, and mock'd at fears — 
One, that upon my neck had parting hung 
Arms white as daisies — on my bosom hid 
A tearful face that sobb'd against my heart. 
Filled with what fondness ! yearning with what 

love ! 
O hope, and would the glad day make her mine ! 



Left the last lingerer with us lengths astern. 
The victory hopeless. Then I knew the strife 
Was come, and hoped 'gainst fear, and, oar to oar, 
Strain'd to the work before me. Head to head 
Through the wild-cheering river-banks we clove 
The swarming waters, raining streams of toil ; 
But Chester gain'd, so much his tutor'd strength 
Held on enduring — mine still waning more. 
And parting with the victory, inch by inch, 
Yet straining on, as if I strove with death. 
Until I groan'd with anguish. Chester heard. 
And turn'd a wondering face upon me cpick, 
And toss'd a laugh across, with jesting words : 
" What, Ned, my boy, and do you take it so 1 
The cup's not worth the moaning of a man. 
No, nor the triumph, Tush ! boy, I rmist win." 
Then from the anguish of my heart a cry 
Burst : " Kate, O dearest Kate— O love — we lose !" 
" Ah ! I've a Kate, too, here to see me win," 
He answer'd ; " Faith ! my boy, I pity you.''' 



HELPING A LAME DOG OVER A STILE. 



317 



" Oh, if you lose," I answered, " you but lose 
A week's wild triumph, and its praise and pride ; 
I, losing, lose what priceless years of joy ! 
Perchance a life's whole sum of happiness — 
What years witli her that I might call my wife ! 
Winning, I win her ! " Oh, thrice noble heart ! 
I saw the mocking laugh fade from his face • 
I saw a nobler light Kght up his eyes ; 
I saw the flush of pride die into one 
Of manly tenderless and sharp resolve ; 
No word he spoke ; one only look he threw, 
That told me all ; and, ere my heart could leap 
In prayers and blessings rain'd upon his name, 
I was before him, through the tracking eyes 



Of following thousands, heading to the goal. 

The shouting goal, that hurl'd my conquering 

name 
Miles wide in triumph, " Chester foil'd at last ! " 
Oh, how I turn'd to him ! with what a heart ! 
Unheard the shouts — unseen the crowding gaze 
That ring'd us. How I wrung his answering hand 
With grasps that bless'd him, and with flush that 

told 
I shamed to hear my name more loud than his, 
And spurn'd its triumph. So I won my wife, 
My own dear wife ; and so I won a friend, 
Chester, more dear than aU but only her. 
And these, the small ones of my college dreams. 




HELPING A LAME DOG OVER A STILE.* 

[Prom " Frank Fairlegll." By Frank E. Smedley.] 



tT was usually my custom of an afternoon to 
read Law for a couple of hours, a course of 
training preparatory to committing myself to 
the tender mercies of a special pleader ; and as 
Sir John's weU-stored library afforded me every 
facility for so doing, that was the veiuie I generally 
selected for my interviews with Messrs. Blackstone, 
Coke upon Lyttelton, and other legal luminaries. 
Accordingly, on the day in question, after having 
nearly quarrelled with my mother for congratula- 
ting me warmly on the attainment of my wishes, 
when I mentioned to her Lawless's proposal, found 
fault with Fanny's Italian pronunciation so harshly 
as to bring tears into her eyes, and grievously 
offended our old female domestic by disdainfully 
rejecting some pet abomination upon which she 
had decreed that I should lunch, I sallied forth, 
and, not wishing to encounter any of the family, 
entered the hall by a side door, and reached the 
library unobserved. To my surprise I discovered 
Lawless (whom I did not recollect ever to have 
seen there before, he being not much given to 
literary pursuits) seated, pen in hand, at the table, 
apparently absorbed in the mysteries of composi- 
tion. 
" I shall not clistiirb you. Lawless," said I, taking 



down a book. " I am only going to read Law for 
an hour or two." 

" Eh ! disturb me 1 " was the reply ; " I'm un- 
common glad to be disturbed, I can tell you, for 
hang me if I can make head or tail of it ! Here 
have I been for the last three hours trying to write 
an ofier to your sister, and actually have not con- 
trived to make a fair start of it yet. I wish you 
would lend me a hand, there's a good fellow — I 
know you are up to all the right dodges — just give 
one a sort of notion, eh 1 don't you see ? " 

" What ! write an ofi'er to my own sister 1 AVeU, 
of all the quaint ideas I ever heard, that's the 
oddest — really you must excuse me." 

" Very odd, is it 1 " inquired Coleman, opening 
the door in time to overhear the last sentence. 
" Pray let me hear about it then, for I like to know 
of odd things particularly ; but, perhaps, I'm in- 
truding ? " 

" Eh ? no ; come along here, Coleman," cried 
Lawless, " you are just the very boy I want — I am 
going to be married — that is, I want to be, don't 
you see, if she'll have me, but there's the rub ; 
Frank Fairlegh is all right, and the old lady says 
she's agreeable, so everything depends on the 
young woman herself — if she will but say ' Yes,' 



* By permission of Messrs. George Routledge and Sous, 



318 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



we shall go a-liead in style ; but, unfortunately, 
before she is likely to say anything one way or the 
other, you understand, I've got to pop the question, 
as they call it. Now, I've about as much notion 
of making an offer, as a cow has of dancing a 
hornpipe — so I want you to help us a bit — eh 1 " 

" Certainly," replied Freddy, courteously ; " I 
shall be only too happy, and as delays arc 
dangerous, I had perhaps better be off at once — 
where is the young lady ? " 

" Eh ! hold hard there ! don't go quite so fast, 
young man," exclaimed Lawless, aghast ; " if you 
bolt away at that pace you'll never see the end of 
the run ; why, yon don't suppose I want you to go 
and talk to her — pop the question viva voce, do 
you ? You'll be advising me to be married by 
deputy, I suppose, next. No, no, I'm going to do 
the trick by letter — something like a Valentine, 
only rather more so, ehl but I can't exactly 
manage to write it properly. If it was but a 
warranty for a horse, now, I'd knock it off in no 
time, but this is a sort of thing, you see, I'm not 
used to ; one doesn't get married as easily as one 
sells a horse, nor as often, eh 1 and it's rather a 
nervous piece of business — a good deal depends 
upon the letter." 

" You've been trying your hand at it already, I 
see," observed Coleman, seating himself at the 
table ; " pretty consumption of paper ! I wonder 
what my governor would say to me if I were to set 
about drawing a deed in this style ; why, the sta- 
tioner's bill would run away with all the profits." 

" Never mind the profits, you avaricious Jew," 
replied Lawless. " Yes, I've been trying effects, as 
the painters call it — putting down two or three 
beginnings to find out which looked the most like 
the time of day — you understand 1 " 

" Two or three 1 " repeated Coleman, " six or 
seven rather, voyons. ' Mr. Lawless presents his 
affections to Miss Fairlegh, and requests the 
hon . . .' Not a bad idea, an offer in the third 
person — the only case in which a third person 
would not be de trap in such an affair." 

" Eh ! yes, I did the respectful when I first 
started, you know, but I soon dropped that sort of 
thing when I got warm ; you'll see, I stepped out 
no end afterwards." 

" ' Honoured Miss,' continued Coleman, reading, 
" ' My sentiments, that is, your perfections, your 
splendid action, your high breeding, and the many 
slap-up points that may be discerned in you by any 
man that has an eye for a horse . . .' " 

"Ah ! that was where I .spoiled it," sighed Law- 
less. 

"Here's a very pretty one," resumed Freddy. 
"'Adorable and adored Miss Fanny Fairlegli, 
seeing you as I do, with the eyes ' (Why, she would 
not think you saw her with your nose, would 
she f) ' of fond affection, probably would induce 



me to overlook any unsoundness or disposition to 
vice . . .' " 

" That one did not turn out civilly, you see," 
said Lawless, "or else it wasn't such a bad begin- 
ning." 

" Here's a better," rejoined Coleman. " ' Ex- 
quisitely beautiful Fanny, fairest of that lovely 
sex, which to distingiu.sh it from us rough and 
ready fox-himters, who, when once we get our 
heads at any of the fences of life, go at it, never 
mind how stiff it may be (matrimony has always 
appeared to me one of the stiffest), and generally 
contrive to find ourselves on the other side, with 
our hind legs well under us ; — a sex, I say, which 
to distinguish it from our own, is called the fair 
sex, a stock of which I never used to think any 
great things, reckoning them only fit to canter 
round the parks with, until I saw you brought 
out, when I at once perceived that your condi- 
tion — that is, my feelings — were so inexpressible 
that . . . ! " 

" Ah ! " interposed Lawless, " that's where I got 
bogged, sank in over the fetlocks, and had to give 
it up as a bad job." 

" In fact, your feelings became too many for 
you," returned Coleman ; " but what have we here % 
— verses, by all that's glorious ! " 

" No, no ! I'm not going to let you read them," 
e-xclaimed Lawless, attempting to wrest the paper 
out of his hand. 

" Be quiet, Lawless," rejoined Coleman, holding 
him off, " sit down directly, sir, or I won't write a 
word for you : I tmi&t see what all your ideas are, 
in order to get some notion of what you want to 
say ; besides, I've no doubt they'll be very original. 

I. 
' Sweet Fanny, there are moments 

"N^Hien the heart is not one's own, 
AVhen we fain would clip its wiUl wings' tip, 

But we find tlie bird has flown. 

II. 
' Dear Fanny, there are moments 

"W^ien a loss may be a gain, 
And sorrow, joy — for the heart's a toy, 
And loving's such sweet pain. 

III. 
' Yes, Fanny, there are moments 

^A^ien a smile is worth a throne, 
When a frown can prove the flower of love 
Must fade, and die alone. ' 

— Why, you never wrote those, Lawless % " 

" Didn't 1 1 " returned Lawless, " but I know I 
did, though — copied them out of an old book I 
found up there, and wrote some more to 'em, 
because I thought there wasn't enough for the 
money, besides putting in Fanny's name instead 
of — what, do you think 1 — Pliillis ! — there's a name 
for you ; the fellow must have been a fool. Why, 



HELPING A LAME DOG OVER A STILE. 



319 



I v/ould not give a dog such an ill name for fear 
somebody should hang him ; but go on." 

" All, now we come to the original matter," re- 
turned Coleman, " and very original it seems. 



' Dear Fanny, there are moments 

When love gets you in a fix. 
Takes the bit in his jaws, and, without any i^ause. 
Bolts away with you like bricks. 



' Yes, Famiy, there are moments 

When affection knows no bounds, 
AVhen I'd rather be talking witli you out a-walking, 
Than rattling after the hounds. 

VI. 
' Dear Fanny, there are moments 

When one feels that one's inspired. 
And .... and . . . .' 

— It does not seem to have been one of those 
moments with you just then," continued Freddy, 
" for the poem comes to an abrupt and untimely 
conclusion, unless three blots, and something that 
looks like a horse's head, may be a hieroglyphic 
mode of recording your inspirations, which I'm not 
learned enough to decipher." 

" Eh ! no ; I broke down there," replied Law- 
less ; " the muse deserted me, and went off in a 
canter for — where was it those young women used 
to hang out 1 — ^tlie ' Gradus ad ' place, you know ? " 

"The tuneful Nine, whom you barbarously 
designate young women," returned Coleman, " are 
popularly supposed to have resided on Mount Par- 
nassus, which acclivity I have always imagined of 
a triangular or sugar-loaf form, with Apollo seated 
on the apex or extreme point, his attention divided 
between preserving his equilibrium and keeping up 
his playing, which latter necessity he provided for 
by executing difficult passages on a golden (or, 
more probably, silver-gilt) lyre." 

" Eh ! nonsense," rejoined Lawless ; " now, do be 
serious for five minutes, and go ahead with this 
letter, there's a good fellow, for, 'pon my word, I'm 
in a wretched state of mind, — I am indeed. It's a 
fact, I'm nearly half a stone lighter than I was 
when I came here ; I know I am, for there was an 
old fellow weighing a defunct pig down at the farm 
yesterday, and I made him let me get into the 
scales when he took piggy out. I tell you what, if 
I'm not married soon I shall make a job for the 
sexton ; such incessant wear and tear of the sensi- 
bilities is enough to kill a prize-fighter in full 
training, let alone a man that has been leading 
such a molly-coddle life as I have of late, lounging 
about drawing-rooms like a lapdog." 

'• Well, then, let us begin at once," said Freddy, 
seizing a pen ; " now, what am I to say ? " 

" Eh ! why, you don't expect me to know, do 
you 1 " exclaimed Lawless, aghast ; " I might just 



as well write it myself as have to tell you ; no, no, 
you must help me, or else I'd better give the whole 
thing up at once." 

" I'll help you, man, never fear," rejoined Freddy, 
" but you must give me something to work upon ; 
why, it's all plain sailing enough ; begin by de- 
scribing your feelings." 

" Feelings, ehl" said Lawless, rubbing his ear 
violently as if to arouse his dormant faculties ; 
" that's easier said than done. Well, here goes for 
a start ; — ' My dear Miss Fairlegh.' " 

" ' My dear Miss Fairlegh,' " repeated Coleman, 
writing rapidly, " yes." 

" Have you written that 1 " continued Lawless ; 
" ar — ^let me think — ' I have felt for some time 
past very peculiar sensations, and have become, in 
many respects, quite an altered man.' " 

" ' Altered man,' " murmured Freddy, still writ- 
ing. 

" ' I have given up hunting,' " resumed Lawless, 
" ' which no longer possesses any interest in my 
eyes, though I think you'd have said, if you had 
been with us the last time we were out, that you 
never saw a prettier run in your life ; the meet v/as 
at Chorley Bottom, and we got away in less than 
ten minutes after the hounds had been in cover, 
with as plucky a fox as ever puzzled a pack ' " 

" Hold hard there ! " interrupted Coleman. " I 
can't put all that in ; nobody ever wrote an ac- 
count of a fox-hunt in a love-letter, — no, ' You've 
given up hunting, which no longer possesses any 
interest in your eyes ;' now go on." 

" j\Iy eyes," repeated Lawless, reflectively : " yes ; 
' I am become indifferent to everj^thing ; I take no 
pleasure in the new dog-cart King in Long Acre is 
building for me, with cane sides, the wheels larger, 
and the seat, if possible, still higher than the last, 
and which, if I am not very much out in my 
reckoning, will follow so light ' " 

" I can't write all that trash about a dog-cart," 
interrupted Freddy, crossly ; " that's worse than 
the fox-hunting ; stick to your feelings, man, can't 
you 1 " 

"Ah, you little know the effect such feelings 
produce," sighed LaAvless. 

" That's the style," resumed Coleman, with de- 
light ; " that will come in beautifully ; — ' such feel- 
ings produce :' now, go on." 

" ' At night my slumbers are rendered distract- 
ing, by visions of you as — as ' " 

" 'The bride of another,'" suggested Coleman. 

" Exactly," resumed LaAvless ; " or, ' sleep refus- 
ing to visit my ' " 

" ' Aching eye-balls,' " put in Freddy. 

" ' I lie tossing restlessly from side to side, as if 
bitten by "' 

'" The gnawing tooth of Remorse ;'— that will do 
famously," added his scribe ; " now tell her tha*- 
she is the cause of it." 



320 



GLEANINGS FEOM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



" All these unpleasantnesses are owing to you,' " 
began Lawless. 

" Oh. ! that won't do," said Coleman ; " no,— 
These tender griefs (that's the term, I think) are 
some of the efiects, goods, and chattels,'— psha ! I 
was thinking of drawing a will — ' the effects pro- 
duced upon me by ' " 



Coleman, " ' to succeed in winning your affection, 
it wiU be the study of my future life to prevent 

your every wish ' " 

" Eh ! what do you mean t not let her have her 
own way ? — Oh ! that will never pay ; why, the 
little I know of women, I'm sure that, if you want 
to come over them, you must flatter 'em up with 




DicTATi.-iG A Proposal. {Drawn hj K . Rahton.) 



" ' The wonderful way in which you stuck to 
your saddle when the mare bolted with you,' " re- 
joined Lawless, enthusiastically ; — " what, won't 
that do either ? " 

" No, be quiet, I've got it all beautifully now, if 
you don't interrupt me : ' Your many perfections 
of mind and person, — perfections which have led 
me to centre my ideas of happiness solely in the 
fond hope of one day calling you my own.' " 

" That's very pretty indeed," said Lawless ; " go 
on." 

" ' Should I be fortunate enough,' " continued 



the idea that you mean to give 'em their heads on 
all occasions — let 'em do just what they like. Tel] 
a woman she should not go up the chimney, it's my 
belief you'd see lier nose peep out of the top before 
ten minutes were over. Oh ! that'll never do ! " 

" Nonsense," interrupted Freddy ; " ' prevent ' 
means to forestall in that sense ; however, I'll put 
it ' forestall,' if you like it better." 

" I think it will be safest," replied Lawless, shak- 
ing his head solemnly. 

" ' In everything your will shall be law,' " con- 
tinued Coleman, writing. 



FAIR EOSAMOND. 



321 



"Oh ! I say, that's coming it rather strong, 
though," interposed Lawless ; " query about that 1 '" 

" All right," rejoined Coleman, " it's always 
customaiy to say so in these cases, but it means 
nothing ; as to the real question of mastery, that 
is a matter to be decided post-nuptially ; you'll be 
enlightened on the subject before long in a series 
of midnight discourses, commonly known under 
the title of curtain-lectures." 

" Pleasant, eh 1" returned Lawless ; " well, I bet 
two to one on the grey mare, for I never could 
stand being preached to, and shall consent to any- 
thing for the sake of a quiet life — so move on." 

" ' If this offer of my heart and hand should be 
favourably received by the loveliest of her sex,' " 
continued Coleman, " ' a line, a word, a smile, a — ' " 

" ' Wink,' " suggested Lawless. 

" ' Will be sufficient to acquaint me with my 
happiness.' " 

"Tell her to look sharp about sending an 
answer," exclaimed Lawless : " if she ^jeeps me 
waiting long after that letter's sent, I shall go off 
pop, like a bottle of ginger-beer ; I know I shall, 
— string won't hold me, or wire either." 

" ' When once this letter is despatched I shall 
enjoy no respite from the tortures of suspense till 
the answer arrives, which shall exalt to the highest 
pinnacle of happiness or plunge into the lowest 
abysses of despair, one who lives but in the sun- 
shine of your smile, and who now, with the liveliest I 



affection, tempered by the most profound respect, 
ventures to sign himself. Your devotedly attached 

" ' And love-lorn,' " interposed Lawless, in a 
sharp, quick tone. 

" Love-lorn ?" repeated Coleman, looking up with 
an air of surprise ; " sentimental and ridiculous in 
the extreme ! I shall not write any such thing." 

" I believe, Mr. Coleman, that letter is intended 
to express my feelings and not yours 1 " questioned 
Lawless, in a tone of stern inve.stigation. 

"Yes, of course it is," began Coleman. 

" Then write as I desire, sir," continued Lawless, 
authoritatively ; " I ought to know my own feel- 
ings best, I imagine; I feel love-lorn, and 'love- 
lorn' it shall be." 

"Oh, certainly," replied Coleman, .slightly 
offended, " anything you please, ' Your devotedly 
attached and love-lorn admirer' — here, sign it 
yourself, ' George Lawless.' " 

" Bravo ! " said Lawless, relapsing into his 
accustomed good humour the moment the knotty 
point of the insertion of "love-lorn" had been 
carried ; " if that isn't first-rate, I'm a Dutchman : 
why, Freddy, boy, where did you learn it ? how 
does it all come into your head 1 " 

" Native talent," replied Coleman, " combined 
■ndth a strong and lively appreciation of the sub- 
Hme and beautiful, chiefly derived from my 
maternal grandmother whose name was Burke." 



FAIE EOSAMOND. 

A FRAGMENT. 
[By Owen Meredith (The Earl of Lyttou.)] 



iORD CLIFFORD'S 
daughter loved a 
.stranger knight. 
How met they ? 
Deem some gos- 
hawk chanced to 
light 
Over the river 
freshets, whence 
the breeze 
Blew the faint 
bugle-notes thro' 
slumbrous trees 
Across that sleepy 
wood that lay 
about 
The limits of Lord Clifford's land ; nor doubt 
How the knight, following with jess and hood 
Thorough the green realm of the rippling wood, 
To call back and recapture his estray, . 
2 




'Met with the maiden. Sure the bold blue jay. 

Sitting against the sun on some great bough, 

Was over garrulous, and blabb'd, I trow. 

The wood's best secret : or the sweet stock-dove 

Moan'd from her warm green hiding-place above 

Peculiar pathos to enchant his way. 

I, who believe in what old poets say, 

Deem the dim-footed Dryads of the place 

Flitted before him, each with wistful face 

And woodland eyes, from many a sunken hollow, 

Athwart the sun-sweet mosses, murmuring 

"Follow!" 
While the leaves wink'd, and clapp'd their hands 

together, 
Too mad with May-dew and the merry weather 
To keep the tender secret to themselves. 
Breaking their moonlight oaths to the mild elves. 
Enough, that — whether by fair fate or chance, 
Or led by Powers that ruled in old romance — 
He 'lighted on the maid in happy hour. 



322 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



And found lier fairer tlian the bramble flower 
That unbeliolden bears the wilding rose, 
Fresli as a first spring dawn that, ere it close. 
Leaves the world wealthier for the violet ; 
For ere they parted (howsoe'er they met), 
A sweetness, like the scent from some unseen 
And new-born flower that makes the mild month 

green. 
Lingering along the thoughts of each, made known 
That the first violet of the heart was blown- 
Love, the beginning and the end of youth ! 
Sweet Rosamunda, maid o' the rosy mouth. 
Did the deep skies assume more blissful blue, 
Saw ye faint fairy footsteps in the dew, 
That eve, when Love's pale planet made aware 
Of Love's faint advent all the holy air 
About the ivy-twine and eglatere 
Powering the balmy casement, where shy fear 
Of thine own young heart leaping into life 
Against its fragrant girdle, wrought sweet strife 
Among thy maiden musings ? None shall tell 
The secret of that hoiir, and this is well. 
No old worm-eaten page with flowery marge. 
And faded letters, once made fair and large 
To suit the sight of some lascivious king, 
Remainetli now to babble anything 
To prying pedants of thine inmost heart ; 
But, in unfading Fable-land, thou art 
(Among green England's greenest memories) 
A flower kept fresh by tears from poets' eyes. 
Albeit, fond fancies sue me to conceive 
How many a gleaming morn and glimmering eve 
Belield the stranger, that sweet trespass made 
A welcome guest, in Clifford's hall. I said 
'" The Stranger : " but not nameless, sure, he came. 
The Count Plantagenet had such a name 
Might win him welcome when the love of sport 
Lured him that way ; the manners of the Court, 
Moreover, mingling with a debonaire 
Frank nature, made his comely presence tliere 
.A secret pleasure in the pride of all 
The homely inmates of Lord Clifford's hall. 
His stout voice cheer'd the fifty squires thatbowl'd 
The daylight down in alleys green and cold : 
His brave lips blew so shrill a blast among 
The echoing glades that, when the high wood rung 
To his blithe bugle, every huntsman knew 
That note, and merrily his response blew. 
Nor less, when oft to snare the sliding fish. 
Among the low-bridged moats, with silken mesh, 
Fair Rosamunda and her maids would lean. 
The courtly guest soft songs could breathe 

between 
The rippled silver of most sweet lute-strings, 
Musical with great loves of mighty kings 
For queens of old, and every fair romance 
By well-skill'd minstrels sung through sunny 

France ; 
Till, as a Naiad being slowly born, 



That rises up a forest fount forlorn. 

The maiden's misty sense of her own love. 

Borne on the mounting music, seem'd to move 

LTp every virgin pulse to palpable 

And passionate consciousness. He touched so well 

The tingling source of tender thoughts ! 

Half child, 
Half giant, there was in him, undefil'd, 
The fresh fount of an overflowing heart, 
And that strong sense that grasps the sovranest 

part 
Of life, and makes it pregnant. See him stand, 
His grey goshawk upon his ungloved hand ! 
Singulfus shows ye how he yet appears 
Athwart the ravage of those ruthless years 
That make men names, or nothing. I, meanwhile, 
Follow these fancies, meaning to beguile 
Dull days, unlike the days whereof I sing, 
Blown blossoms from the May of the world's 

spring. 
Yet were their goings, comings, mysteries, 
Wild intervals of absence, vague surmise. 
Oft, in the midst of tenderest talk, he sat 
Suddenly silent, gazing sternly at 
The faint blue upland objects leagues away ; 
As tho', for him, beyond the hills there lay 
A fiercer world than that 'mid those soft bowers 
Visited only by the silver showers. 
And then the woman-instinct in her heart 
Dimly divined her presence claim'd no part 
Among those fitful moods : and if her glance 
Stole up the silence to his coimteuance 
Timidly, she beheld upon his brow 
Deep furrows folding, and a shadow grow 
Into his face, as when in open lands 
The shadow of a hawk sweeps o'er still sands. 
So that her love was like a summer cloud 
Breathless above some brooding garden bow'd. 
Where all the watchful roses seem aware 
Of the uncertain spirit in the air. 
And even the brightest minutes of that love 
Were but as rays of light that rest above 
Such clouds as, girt with thuiider at the base, 
Have yet sweet sunlight sleeping on their face. 
At last doubt broke to passionate appeal 
That drew such response as did less reveal 
Thau hint deep cause for these disturbed moods : 
Court complots growing from domestic feuds : 
A spleenful parent, powerful friends to be 
Humour'd, and some persistent enemy. 
An easy tale Lord Clifford's faith beguil'd. 
Who loved the comely guest that loved his child. 
They wed, by night, in secret. A strange friar 
Join'd them. And when, too late, the stricken 

sire 
Learn'd all : the falsehood consummate that 

night — 
The mockery of the midnight marriage rite — 




A MINSTEEL KING. {Drawn by M. L. Goiv.) 



"FAIR ROSAMOND" (p. 322) 



FAIR ROSAMOND. 



328 



The maid a mother whom the blessed name 

Of wife miglit shield not from a leman's shame^ 

The true name of his over-trusted guest ; 

He lock'd so close the secret in his breast, 

That his heart broke beneath it. With grey head 

Bow'd henceforth by the weight of nothing said, 

He to a near grave crept unmurmuring, 

Loyal in death to the disloyal king. 



Night gather'd up the ghostly solitudes 
And gave them voices from the groaning wood's 
Black bowels, stray'd wayfarers had been knov/n 
To see a furious horseman, toward the town, 
Bounding o'er bosky places in the moon ; 
And once a tir'd nut-gathering village loon, 
Lost in the wood, came suddenly upon 
The castle, glaring in the sinking sun ; 




*'ThET wed BT KI3HT, i:i SECRET." (DraifH bj AT. L. Gow.) 



Meanwhile, in Woodstock town wild rumour told 
Of a strange castle from enchantments old, 
Raised up by Merlin in the days gone by. 
And buried deep in woods from every eye 
Save of the sun and silent stars : and there 
('Twas said) a lady magically fair 
Dwelt folded fast by many a fortress wall. 
So held by some wild baron for his thrall. 
For oft, at eve, the unwhispering woods among. 
Some wandering woodman heard a plaintive song 
That fell more soft than softest twilight falls 
From battlements of blossom-bosom'd walls, 
O'er woodland, water, glade, and hollow glen. 
Breaking the heart of silence : often, when 



Where, from beneath the southern wall he spied 
A fair green garden-lawn, enfolded wide 
With flowery alleys, cloister'd arbours, close 
Roof'd with the ripe and multitudinous rose. 
And, by a creaming fountain, standing there 
Alone, a lady marvellously fair 
And melancholy pale. To scan her face 
(Since the spent moat in that unnoticed place 
Ran dry, and chok'd among thick weeds) hs 

crept 
Under the parapet, but scarce had stept 
Up to his perch when straight an armed hand 
Stretch'd o'er the toothed wall, and graspt him, 

and . . 



324 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



Dropt him among the dank moat flowers. The 

tale 
In Woodstock hostel, pusht with pots of ale, 
Circled the board, and made a certain stir 
Among the gossips there j each wassailer, 
Pledging the enchanted lady, took it up, 
Play'd on, and pass'd it with a flowing cup 
To his swiU'd neighbour, till from man to man, 
It grew more wondei'ful as round it ran. 
But we, by Dan Apollo visited 
With visionary power, boldly tread 
The haunted woodland. Fancy finds the clue — 
The forest trees are spell'd to let us thro'. 
Leave Woodstock sleeping in the dawn. We stand 
In the wood's heart. Autumn, with unseen haad. 
Hath been before to brand the shrivell'd fern 
With biting gold ; already you discern 
Her doings in the abandon'd glens. Then pass 
A few leagues further. Comes a wild morass, 
Steam'd o'er by shining vapour, where the foot 
Pashes marsh-mallows and blue lily-root 
'Twixt streaks of flashing water : everything 
Is dumb save some great heron making wing 
Heavily o'er the waste, and that intense 
Sharp insect sound that swarms about the 

immense 
And simmering surface of the solitude 
Thro' which the way lies. Then again the wood 
Unclasps and takes us. Day is falling down, 
And the last sunbeams under elm-trees brown 
Lie dreaming, and the hazel-thickets close 



About us, and more labyrinthine blows 

The hundred-handed bramble, the' despoil'd 

Of her Briarean blossoms : heap'd and coil'd, 

The wood hangs round us, heavy ; till dismay 

Takes it and suddenly it voids its prey, 

And we stand, breathless, in the open chase — 

Across a league of sunset, face to face 

With a grey clump of turrets. Thro' thick grass^ 

Gilt with the golden gallingale, we pass. 

Blow the slug-horn, down clangs the sharp 

drawbridge 
Over a melancholy moat the midge 
O'ercircles, and the sullen pompion. 
With pallid blossoms sleeping in the sun. 
On the black water. Thence, with fold on fold. 
The forked fortress' outworks grimly hold 
At bay the in-comer. Suddenly we are 
(Alone with Hesperus the happy star) 
In the dim garden : fades the world beyond, 
And in her bower behold Fair Rosamond 1 
The dying sun on each ambrosial curl, 
Fall'n round her white neck from the braided 

pearl. 
Stays all his softest light, and will not set ; 
Whilst at her feet the great Plantagenet 
Lies, looking up into those lustrous eyes. 
And from his forehead slowly, slowly dies 
The furrow and the frown, and from his face 
(Bath'd in that blissful beauty) the vext trace 
Of Eleanor's last look — the sharp French shrew — 
And all his rebel sons, and false Anjou. 



THE SHOWMAN'S COUETSHIP. 

[By "Artebids "Ward."] 




HARE was 
many aiFectiu 
ties which made 
me hanker arter 
Betsy Jane. Her 
father's farm 
jined our'n ; their 
cows and our'n 
squencht their 
thurst at the same 
spring ; our old 
mares both had 
stars in their for- 
rerds ; the measles 
broke out in both famerlies at nearly the same 
period ; our parients (Betsy's and mine) slept 
reglarly every Sunday in the same meetin- 
house, and the nabers used to obsarve, "How 
thick the Wards and Peasleys air ! " It was a 
surblime sitC; in the Spring of the year, to see our 



sevral mothers (Betsy's and mine) with their gowns 
pin'd up so thay couldn't sile 'em, affecshunitly 
bihn sope together & aboozin the nabers. 

Altho I hankerd intensly arter the objeck of my 
afFecshuns, I darsunt tell her of the fires which 
was rajin in my manly buzzum. I'd try to do it, 
but my tung would kerwoUup up agin the roof of 
my mowth & stick thar, like deth to a deseast 
Afrikan or a country postmaster to his offiss, 
while my hart whanged agin my ribs like a old 
fashioned wheat flale agin a barn door. 

'Twas a carm still nite in Joon. All nater was 
husht and nary zefier disturbed the sereen silens. 
I sot with Betsy Jane on the fense of her farther's 
pastur. We'd been rompin threw the woods, 
kullin floui's & drivin the woodchuck from his 
Nativ Lair (so to .speak) with long sticks. Wall, 
we sot thar on the fense, a .swingin our feet two 
and fro, blushin as red as the Baldinsville skool 
house when it was fust painted, and lookin very 



THE SHOWMAN'S COURTSHIP. 



325 



simple, I make no doubt. My left ana was ockepied 
in baUunsin myself on the fense, while my rite was 
woundid luvinly round her waste. 

I cleared my throat and tremblinly sed, " Betsy, 
you're a Gazelle." 

I thought that air was putty fine. I waitid to 
see what efieck it would hav upon her. It evidently 
didn't fetch her, for she up and sed — 

" You're a sheep ! " 

Sez I, " Betsy, I think very muchly of you." 



probly for sum time, but unfortnitly I lost my 
ballunse and fell over into the pastur ker smash, 
tearin my close and seveerly damagin myself 
ginerally. 

Betsy Jane sprung to my assistance in dubble 
quick time and dragged me 4th. Then, drawin 
herself up to her full hite, she sed : 

" I won't listen to your noncents no longer. Jes 
say rite strate out what you're drivin at. If you 
mean gettin hitched, I'm in ! " 




'If you mean gettin hitched, I'm in!" (Drav^nly W. Balton.) 



" I don't b'leeve a word you say — so there now, 
cimi ! " with which obsarvashun she hitched away 
from me. 

" I wish thar was winders to my Sole," sed I, 
" so that you could see some of my feelins. There's 
fire enuff in here," sed I, strikin my buzzum with 
my fist, " to bile all the corn beef and turnips in 
the naberhood. Versoovius and the Critter ain't a 
circumstans ! " 

She bowd her hed down and commenst chawin 
the strings to her sun bonnet. 

" Ar could you know the sleeplis nites I worry 
threw with on your account, how vittles has seized 
to be attractiv to me & how my lims has shrunk 
up, you wouldn't dowt me. Gaze on this wastin 
form and these 'ere sunken cheeks " 

I should have continnered on in this strane 



I considered that air enuff for all practical pur- 
pusses, and we proceeded immejitly to the parson's 
& was made 1 that very nite. 



I've parst threw many tryin ordeels sins then, 
but Betsy Jane has bin troo as steel. By attendin 
strickly to bizniss I've amarsed a handsmn Pit- 
tance. No man on this foot-stool can rise ik git up 
ifc say 1 ever knowinly injered no man or wimmin 
folks, while all agree that my Show is ekalled by 
few and exceld by none, embracin as it does a 
wonderful coUeckshun of livin wild Beests of 
Pray, snaix in grate profushun, a endHss variety 
of life-size wax figgers, & the only traned kangaroo 
in Ameriky — the most amoozin Little cuss ever 
introjuced to a discriminatin public. 



326 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



A TITANK-OFFEEING. 



[From " The Vicar's People," by G. Manville Fenn.] 




J HERE was a bit of excitement 
down on the cliff. 

"Here you, Amos Pengelly, 
what have you got to say to it '] " 
said Tom Jennen. " You don't 
carry on none o' them games at 
chapel. Why don't you set to and 
have thanksgiving, and turn chapel 
into greengrocer's shop like up town 
in Penzaunce"?" 
Amos shook his head, but said nothing. 
'' Why," said Tom Jennen, " you never 
see anything like it, lads. I went up 
church-town, and see something going on, when 
there was Penwynn's gardener with a barrowful 
o' gashly old stuff — carrots, and turnips, and 
'tatoes, and apples, and pears, and a basket o' 
grapes ; an' parson, and young Miss Elioda, and 
Miss Pavey, all busy there inside turning the 
church into a reg'lar shop. Why, it'll look wonder- 
ful gashly to-morrow." 

" They calls it harvest thanksgiving," said 
another fisherman, " and I see pretty nigh a cart- 
load o' flowers, and wheat, and barley, and oats, go 
in. Won't be no room for the people." 

"I thought the church looked very nicely," 
interposed Amos Pengelly ; " and if I Avasn't down 
on the plan to preach to-morrow at St. !Milicent, 
I'd go myself." 

" Lor' a mussy, Amos Pengelly, don't talk in 
that way," said Tom Jennen. "I never go to 
church, and I never did go, but I never knew old 
parson carry on such games. Harvest thanks- 
giving, indeed ! I never see such a gashly sight 
in my life. Turnips in a church ! " 

"Well, but don't you see," said Amos, in an 
expounding tone of voice, " these here are all 
offerings for the harvest ; and turnips and carrots 
may be as precious as offerings as your fine fruits, 
and grapes, and flowers." 

" Well said, lad," exclaimed one of the fisher- 
men ; " and, like 'tatoes, a deal more useful." 

" Didn't Cain an' Abel bring their offerings to 
the altar 1 " said Amos, who gathered strength at 
these words of encouragement. 

" Yes," said Tom Jennen, grinning, " and Cain's 
'tatoes, and turnips, and things, weren't much 
thought on, and all sorts o' trouble come out 
of it. Garden stuff ain't the right thing for 
offerings. Tellee what, lads, here's our boat with 
the finest haul o' mack'ral we've had this year, and 
Curnow's boat half full o' big hake. We arn't got 
no lambs, but what d'yer say, Amos Pengelly, to 



our taking parson up a couple o' pad o' the finest 
mack'ral, and half a score o' big hake ? " 

Tom Jennen winked at his companions as he 
said this, and his looks seemed to say — 

" There's a poser for him ! '' 

Amos Pengelly rubbed one ear, and then he 
rubbed the other, as he stood there, apparently 
searching for precedent for such an act. He 
■\\iinted to work in something from the New Testa- 
ment about the Apostles and their fishing, and the 
miraculous draught, but jjoor Amos did not feel 
inspired just then, and at last, unable to find an 
appropriate quotation, he said — 

" I think it would be C(uite right, lads. It would 
be an offering from the harvest of the sea. Parson 
said he wanted all to give according to their means, 
and you lads have had a fine haul. Take up some 
of your best." 

" What, up to church 1 " cried Tom Jennen. 
"It'll make a reg'lar gashly old smell." 

"Nay," said Amos, "they'd be fresh enough 
to-morrow." 

" You daren't take 'em up to parson, Tom 
Jennen," said one of the men, grinning. 

Tom took a fresh bit of tobacco, spat several 
times down on to the boulders, and narrowly 
missed a mate, who responded with a lump of 
stone from the beach below, and then, frowning 
hugely, he exclaimed — 

" I lay a gallon o' ale I dare take up a hundred 
o' mack'ral and half a score o' hake, come now." 

" Ye daren't," clrorused sevei'al. "Parson '11 gie 
ye such a setting down." 

" I dare," said Tom Jennen, grinning, " I arn't 
feard o' all the parsons in Cornwall. I'll take it 
up." 

" Bet you a gallon o' ale you won't," said one. 

" Done," cried Tom Jennen, clapping his hand 
into that of his mate. 

" And I'll lay you a gallon," said another. 

" And I," — "and I" — " and I," cried several. 

" Done ! done ! done ! " cried Tom Jennen, 
grinning. " Get the fish, lads. I arn't afraid o' 
the parson. I'll take 'em." 

Amos Pengelly looked disturbed, but he said 
nothing. 

" What's he going to do with all the stuff after- 
wards ? " said Tom Jennen. 

" Give it to the poor folk, I hear," said Amos. 

"Then he shall have the fish!" cried Tom 
Jennen. " Anyhow, I'll take 'em up." 

There was a regular roar of laughter here, and a 
proposal was made to go and drink one of the 



A THANK-OFFERING. 



327 



gallons of ale at once, a proposal received with 
acclamation, for now that the bet had been decided 
upon, the want of a little Dutch courage was felt, 
for, in spite of a show of bravado, there was not a 
man amongst the group of fishermen who did not, 
in his religiously-superstitious nature, feel a kind 
of shrinking, and begin to wonder whether 
" parson " might not curse them for their profanity 
in taking up in so mocking a spirit such an ofter- 
iug as fish. 

" Thou'lt come and have a drop o' ale, Amos 
Pengelly," said Tom Jennen. 

" No," said Amos, " I'm going on." 

" Nay, nay, come and have a drop ; " and almost 
by force Amos was restrained, and to a man the 
group joined in keeping him amongst them, feeling 
as if his presence, being a holy kind of man, might 
mitigate any pains that might befall them. 

If one only had hinted at the danger, the rest 
would have followed, and the plan would have 
come to an end ; but no one would show the white 
feather, and, with plenty of laughing and bravado, 
first one and then a second gallon of ale was 
drunk by the group, now increased to sixteen or 
seventeen men ; after which they went down to 
the boats, the fish were selected, and four baskets 
full of the best were carried in procession up to 
the church, with Tom Jennen chewing away at his 
tobacco, his hands in his pockets, and swaggering 
at the head of the party. 

It was a novel but a goodly offering of the 
silvery harvest of the sea, and by degrees the 
noisy talking and joking of the men subsided, till 
they talked in whispers of what " parson " would 
say, and how they would draw off and leave Tom 
Jennen to bear the brunt as soon as they had set 
the baskets down by the porch ; and at last they 
moved on in silence. 

There was not one there who could have 
analysed his own feelings, but long before they 
reached the church they were stealing furtive 
glances one at the other, and wishing that they had 
not come, wondering, tjo, whether any misfortune 
would happen to boat or net in their next trip. 

But for very shame they W'Ould have set down 
the baskets on the rough stones and hurried away, 
Itut the wager had been made, and there was Tom 
Jennen in front rolling along, his hands deeper 
than ever in his pockets, first one shoulder forward 
and then the other. He drew a hand out once to 
give a tug at the rings in his brown ears, but it 
went back and down, and somehow, in spite of his 
bravado, a curious look came over Tom Jennen's 
swarthy face, and he owned to himself that he 
didn't like " the gashly job." 

" But I arn't 'fraid o' no parsons," he said to 
himself, " and he may say what he likes, I'll win 
them six gallons o' ale whether he ill-wishes or 
curses me, or what he likes." 



The dash and go of the party of great swarthy, 
black-haired fellows, in their blue jerseys and great 
boots, was completely evaporated as they reached 
the church, Tom Jennen being the only one who 
spoke, after screwing himself up. 

" Stand 'em down here, lads," he said ; and the 
baskets, with their beautiful iridescent freight of 
mackerel, were placed in the porch, the men being 
glad to get rid of their loads ; and their next idea 
was to hurry away, but they only huddled together 
in a group, feeling very uncomfortable, and Tom 
Jennen was left standing quite alone." 

" I arn't afeard," he said to himself ; but he felt 
very uncomfortable all the same. " He'll whack me 
with big words, that's what he'll do, but they'll 
all run off me like the sea water off a shag's back. 
I arn't feard o' he, no more'n I am o' Amos 
Pengelly ; " and, glancing back at his mates, he 
gave a rapping to the church door with a penny 
piece that he dragged out of his right-hand pocket, 
just as if it had been a counter, and he was 
going to call for the ale he meant to win. 

There was a bit of a tremor ran through the 
group of brave-hearted, stalwart fishermen at this, 
just as if they had had an electric shock ; and the 
men who would risk their lives in the fiercest 
storms felt the desire to run off stronger than ever, 
like a pack of mischievous boys ; but not one 
stirred. 

The door was opened by Miss Pavey, who was 
hot and flushed, and who had a great sheaf of oats 
in one hand and a big pair of scissors in the other, 
while the opening door gave the fishermen a view 
of the interior of the little church, bright with 
flowers in pot and bunch, while sheaves of corn, 
wreaths of evergreens, and artistically-piled-up 
masses of fruits and vegetables produced an effect 
very diiferent to that imagined by the rough, sea- 
faring men, who took a step forward to stare at 
the unuisual sight. 

Miss Pavey dropped her big scissors, which hung 
from her waist by a stout white cotton cord, 
something like a friar's girdle ; and as her eyes fell 
from the rough fishermen to the great baskets of 
fish, she uttered the one word — 

" My ! " 

"Here, I want parson, miss," growled Tom 
Jennen, setting his teeth, and screwing his maho- 
gany-brown face into a state of rigid determination. 

" Hallo, my lads, what have you got here '? " said 
a cheery voice, as Geoffrey Trethick strode up. 

" Fish ! Can't yer see 1 " growled Tom Jennen, 
defiantly. 

" Here— here are the fishermen, Mr. Lee," fal- 
tered Miss Pavey ; an.d, looking flushed with 
exertion, and bearing a great golden orange 
pumpkin in his arms, the Reverend Edward Lee 
came to the door, laid the pumpkin where it was 
to form the base of a pile of vegetables, and then, 



328 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



with his glasses glimmering and shining, he stood 
framed in the Gothic doorway, with Miss Pavey 
and Geoffrey on either side, both looking puzzled, 
Tom Jennen and the fish in the porch, and the 
group of swarthy, blue-jerseyed fishers grouped 
behind. 
Now was the time for the tongue-thrashing to 



offence, no look of injured pride, and, above all, 
no roar of laughter from his assembled mates. 

For a moment or two the vicar looked at the 
offering, and the idea of incongruity struck him, 
but no thought of the men perpetrating a joke 
against his harvest festival. The next moment a 
rapt look seemed to cross his face, and he took off 




' He steetched his hands involtintarilt over the fish." (Braif})ily Gordon Browne.) 



come in, and the roar of laiighter from the fisher- 
men, who had given up all hopes of winning the 
ale, but who were willing enough to pay for the 
fun of seeing " parson's " looks and Tom Jennen's 
thrashing, especially as they would afterwards all 
join in a carouse and help to drink the ale. 

" Brought you some fish for your deckyrations, 
parson," roared Tom Jennen, who had screwed his 
courage up, aiid, as he told himself, won the bet. 

There was no answer, no expostulation, no air of 



his glasses, looking straight before him as visions 
of the past floated to his mind's eye. To him, 
then, the bright bay behind the groiip suggested 
blue Galilee, and he thought of the humble fisher- 
folk who followed his great Master's steps, and the 
first fruits of the harvest of the sea became holy 
] in his eyes. 

Geoffrey Trethick looked at him wonderingly, 
and Miss Pavey felt a something akin to awe as 
she watched the young hero of her thoughts, with 



THE STORY OF A GRIDIRON. 



329 



tears in her eyes ; while he, with a slight huski- 
ness in his voice, as he believed that at last he 
was moving the hearts of these rough, stubborn 
people, said simplj' — 

" I thank yon, my men, for your generous offer- 
ing," and he stretched his hands involuntarily over 
the fish ; " God's blessing in the future be upon 
you when you cast your nets, and may He pre- 
serve you from the perils of the sea." 

" Amen ! " exclaimed a loud voice from behind. 

It was the voice of Amos Pengelly, who had 
stood there unobserved : and then there was utter 
silence, as the vicar replaced his glasses, little 
thinking that his demeanour and few simple words 
had done more towards winning over the rough 
fishermen before him than all his previous efforts 
or a year of preaching would have done. 

" I'm very glad," he said, smiling, and holding 
out his hand. to Tom Jennen, who hesitated for a 
moment, and then gave his great horny paw a rub 
on both sides against his flannel trousers before 
giving the delicate womanly fingers a tremendous 
squeeze. 

" I'm very glad to see you," continued the vicar, 
passing Jennen, and holding out his hand to each 
of the fishermen in turn, hesitating for a moment 
as he came to Amos Pengelly, the imhallowed 
usurper of the holy office of the priest ; but he 
shook hands with him warmly, beaming upon him 
thi'ough his glasses, while the men stood as solemn 
as if about to be ordered for execution, and so 
taken aback at the way in which their offering 
had been received that not one dared gaze at the 
other. 



" Mr. Trethick, would you mind 1 ' said the 
vicar, apologetically, as he stooped to one handle 
of the finest basket of mackerel. " How beautiful 
they look." 

"Certainly not," said Geoffrey, who took the 
other handle, and they, between them, bore the 
overflowing ba.sket up to the foot of the lectern. 

" We'll make a pile of them here," exclaimed 
the vicar, whose face was flushed with pleasure ; 
and, setting the basket down, they returned for 
another. Miss Pavey, scissors in hand, once more 
keeping giiard at the door. 

" I am so glad," he continued. " I wanted some- 
thing by the reading desk, and these fish are so 
appropriate to our town." 

" Let's go and get the parson ten times as many, 
lads,"' cried Tom Jennen, excitedly. 

"No, no," said the vicar, laying his hand upon 
the rough fellow's sleeve ; " there are plenty here. 
It is not the quantity, my lads, but the way in 
which the offering is made." 

There was an abashed silence once more 
amongst the guilty group, which was broken by 
the vicar saying — 

" Will you come in and see what we have done 1 " 

There was a moment's hesitation and a very 
sheepish look, but as the head sheep, in the person 
of Tom Jennen, took oft' his rough cap, stooped, 
and lifted a basket and went in on tip-toe, the rest 
followed, their heavy boots, in spite of their eflbrts, 
clattei'ing loudly on the red and black-tiled floor, 
while the vicar took from them with his own hands 
the remainder of the fish, and placed them round 
the desk. 



?>vitej6 



THE- STOET OJP A GRIDIEOK* 

[By Samuel Lover.] 




CERTAIN old gentleman in the west 
of Ireland, whose love of the ridiculous 
-|.jjsi^. tvr> quite equalled his taste for claret and 
^y'jS fox-hunting, was wont, upon certain 
"'•']([ festive occasions when opportunity offered, 
l|b to amuse his friends by " drawing out " one 
[ of his servants who was exceedingly fond 
of what he termed his " thravels," and in whom a 
good deal of whim, some queer stories, and, 
perhaps more than all, long and faithful services, 
had established a right of loquacity. He was one 
of those few trusty and privileged domestics who, 
if his master unheedingly uttered a rash thing in a 
fit of passion, would venture to set him right. If 
the squire said, "I'll turn that rascal off," my 
friend Pat would say, "Throth you won't, sir;" 



and Pat was always right, lor if any altercation 
arose upon the subject-matter in hand, he was 
sure to throw in some good reason, either from 
former service — general goocl conduct — or the 
delinquent's "wife and chiklher," that always 
turned the scale. 

But I am digressing ; on such merry meetings 
as I have alluded to, the master, after making 
certain " appi-oaches," as a military man would 
say, as the preparatory steps in laying siege to 
some extravaganza of his servant, might perchance 
assail Pat thus : " By-the-by, Sir John " (address- 
ing a distinguished guest), " Pat has a very curious 
story, which something you told me to-day 
reminds me of. You remember, Pat " (turning to 
the man, e^adently pleased at the notice paid to 



By i^ormission of Messrs. George Eoutledge end Sous. 



330 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



ihimself) — "you remember that qiieer adventure 
you liad in France 1 " 

" Tbroth I do, sir," grins forth Pat. 

" What ! " exclaims Sir John, in feigned surprise, 
" was Pat ever in France 1 " 

" Indeed he was," cries mine host ; and Pat 
adds, "Ay, and farther, plaze your honour." 

" I assure you, Sir John," continues my host, 
■'■' Pat told me a story once that surprised me very 
much, respecting the ignorance of the French." 

" Indeed ! " rejoins the baronet ; " really, I 
always supposed the French to be a most accom- 
plished people." 

" Throth then, they are not, sir," interrupts 
Pat. 

" Oh, by no means," adds miiie host, shaking 
his head emphatically. 

" I believe, Pat, 'twas when you were crossing 
the Atlantic ? " says the master turning to Pat 
with a seductive air, and leading into the " full 
and true account " (for Pat had thought fit to visit 
■" North Ainerikay," for a " raison he had " in the 
autumn of the year '98). 

" Yes, sir," says Pat, " the broad Atlantic " — a 
favourite phrase of his, which he gave with a 
brogue as broad almost as the Atlantic itself. 

" It was the time I was lost in crassin' the broad 
Atlantic, comin' home," began Pat, decoyed into 
the recital ; " whin the winds began to blow, and 
the sae to rowl, that you'd think the Colleen dhas 
(that was her name) would not have a mast left 
but what would rowl out of her. 

" Well, sure enough, the masts went by the 
board at last, and the pumps was choak'd (divil 
choak them for that same), and av coorse the 
wather gained an us, and throth, to be filled with 
■wather is neither good for man or baste ; and she 
was sinkin' fast, settlin' down, as the sailors calls 
it, and faith I never was good at settlin' down in 
my life, and I liked it then less nor ever ; accord- 
ingly we prepared for the worst, and put out the 
boat, and got a sack o' bishkits, and a cashk o' 
pork, and a kag o' wather, and a thrifie o' rum 
aboord, and any other little matthers we could 
think iv in the mortial hurry we woi in — and, 
faith, there was no time to be lost, for my darlint 
the Colleen dhas, went down like a lump o' lead, 
afore we wor many sthrokes o' the oar away from 
her. 

" Well, we dhrifted away all that night, and 
next mornin' we put up a blanket and the ind av 
a pole as well as we could, and thin we sailed 
illigant, for we darn't show a stitch o' canvas the 
night before, bekase it was blowin' like murther, 
savin' your presence, and sure it's the wondher 
of the world we worn't swally'd alive by the ragin' 
sae. 

" Well, away we wint for more nor a week, and 
nothin' before our two good-looking eyes but the 



canophy iv heaven, and the wide ocean— the 
broad Atlantic — not a thing was to be seen but 
the sae and the sky ; and though the sae and the 
sky is mighty purty things in themselves, throth 
they're no great things whin you've nothin' else to 
look at for a week together — and the barest rock 
in the world, so it was land, would be more 
welkim. And then, sure enough, throth, our 
provisions began to run low, the bishkits, and the 
wather, and the rum — throth tJiat was gone first 
of all, God help uz — and oh ! it was thin that 
starvation began to stare us in the face — ' Oh, 
murther, murther, captain, darlint!' says I, 'I 
wish we could see land anywhere,' says I. 

" ' More power to your elbow, Paddy, my boy,' 
says he, ' for sich a good wish, and throth, it's 
myself wishes the same.' 

" ' Oh,' says I, ' that it may plaze you, sweet 
queen in heaven, supposing it was only a dissolute 
island,' says I, 'inhabited wid Turks, sure they 
wouldn't be such bad Christians as to refuse uz a 
bit and a sup.' 

" ' Whisht, whisht, Paddy ! ' says the captain, 
' don't be talkin' bad of any one,' says he ; ' you 
don't know how soon you may v/ant a good word 
put in for yourself, if you should be called to 
quarthers in tli' other world all of a suddent,' says 
he. 

'"Thrue for you, captain, darlint,' says I — I 
called him Darlint, and made free wid him, you 
see, bekase disthress makes uz all equal — 'thrue 
for you, captain, jewel — God betune uz and harm, 
I owe no man any spite ' — and throth, that was 
only thruth. Well, the last bishkit was sarved 
out, and by gor the wather itself was all gone at 
last, and we passed the night mighty cowld. Well, 
at the brake o' day, the sun riz most beautiful out 
o' the waves, that was as bright as silver and as 
clear as cryshthal. But it was only the more crule 
upon uz, for we wor beginnin' to feel terrible 
hungry ; when all at wanst I thought I spied 
the land — I thought I felt my heart up in my 
throat in a minnit, and ' Thundher and turf, 
captain,' says I, ' look to leeward,' says I. 

" ' What for ? ' says he. 

" ' I think I see the land,' says I. So he ups 
with his bring-um-near (that's what the sailors 
call a spy-glass, sir) and looks out, and, sure 
enough, it was. 

" ' Hurra ! ' says he, ' we're all right now ; pull 
away, my boys,' says he. 

" ' Take care you're not mistaken,' says I ; 
' maybe it's only a fog-bank, captain, darlint,' 
says I. 

" ' Oh no,' says he ; ' it's the land in airnest.' 

" ' Oh, then, wherebouts in the wide world are 
we, captain ? ' says I ; ' maybe it id be in Roosia 
or Proosia, or the German Oceant,' says I. 

'' ' Tut, you fool,' says he — for he had that 



THE STORY OF A GRIDIEOK 



331 



consaited way wid liim, thinkin' himself cleverer 
nor any one else — ' that's France,' says he. 

" ' Tare an ouns,' says I, ' do you tell me so ] 
and how do you know it's France it is, captain, 
dear l ' says I. 

" Bckase this is the Bay o' Bisliky we're in now,' 
says he. 

" ' Throth, I was thinkin' so myself,' says I, ' by 
the rowl it has ; for I often heerd av it in regard 
o' the same ; ' and throth, the likes av it I never 
seen before nor since, and, with the help o' God, 
never will. 

" Well, with that my heart began to grow light, 
and when I seen nry life was safe, I began to grow- 
twice hungrier nor ever — so says I, ' Captain, 
jewel, I wish we had a gridiron.' 

" ' Why then,' says he, ' thundher and turf,' says 
he, ' what puts a gridiron in your head ? ' 

" Bekase I'm starvin' with the hunger,' says I. 

"And sure, bad luck to you,' says he, 'you 
couldn't ate a gridiron,' says lie, 'barrin' you wor 
a pelican q' the wilderness,' says he. 

'"Ate a gridiron ! ' says I ; ' och,,in throth, I'm 
not such a gommoch all out as that, anyhow. But 
sure if we had a gridiron we could dress a beef- 
steak,' says I. 

"'Arrali! but where's the beef-ste.ik ]' says 
he. 

" ' Sure, couldn't we cut a slice aff the pork 1 ' 
says I. 

" ' By gor, I never thought o' that,' says the 
captain. ' You're a clever fellow, Paddy,' says 
he, laughin'. 

" ' Oh, there's many a thrue word said in joke,' 
says I. 

" ' Thrue for you, Paddy,' says lie. 

" ' Well, thin,' says I, ' if you put me ashore 
there beyant ' (for we were nearin' the land all the 
time), ' and sure I can ask thini for to lind me the 
loan of a gridiron,' says I. 

" ' Oh, by gor, the buttlier's comin' out o' the 
stairabout in airnest now,' says lie ; ' you gom- 
moch,' says he, ' sure I towld you before that's 
France — and sure they're all furriners there,' says 
the captain. 

" ' Well,' says I, ' and how do you know but I'm 
as good a furriner myself as any o' thim.' 

" ' What do you mane ? ' says he. 

" ' I mane,' says I, ' what I told you, that I'm as 
good a furriner myself as any o' thim.' 

" ' Make me sinsible,' says he. 

" ' Bedad, maybe that's more nor me, or greater 
nor me, could do,' says I — and we all began to 
laugh at him, for I thought I'd pay him off for his 
bit o' consait about the German Oceant. 

"'Lave aff your liumbuggin',' says he, 'I bid 
you, and tell me what it is you mane at all at 
all.' 

"' Parly iioo froivjsay ' says I. 



" ' Oh, your humble servant,' says he. ' Why, 
you're a scholar, Paddy.' 

" ' Throth, you may say that,' says I. ■ 

" ' Why, you're a clever felloAv, Paddy,' says the 
captain, jeerin' like. 

•' ' You're not the first that said that,' says I, 
' whether you joke or no.' 

'' ' Oh, but I'm in airnest,' says the captain — 
'and do you tell me, Paddy,' says he, 'that you 
spake Frinch ] ' 

'" Parbj voo fronysai/,' says I. 

" ' Well, that bangs Banagher. I never met the 
likes o' you, Paddy,' says he. ' Pull away, boys, 
and put Paddy ashore.' 

" So with that, it was no sooner said nor done — 
they pulled away and got close into the shore in 
less than no time, and run the boat up in a little 
creek ; and a beautiful creek it was, with a lovely 
white sthrand, an illigant place for ladies to bathe 
in the summer— and out I got ; and it's, stiff 
enough in my limbs I was afther bein' cramped 
up in the boat, and perished with the cowld and 
hunger ; but I conthrived to scramble on, one 
way or the other, tow'rds a little bit iv a wood 
that was close to the shore, and the smoke cuiiin' 
out of it, quite timptin' like. 

" ' By the powdhers o' Avar, I'm all right,' says. 
I ; ' there's a house there ' — and sure enough there 
was, and a parcel of men, women, and childher,. 
ating their dinner round a table cpiite convenient. 
And so I wint up to the dure, and I thought I'd 
be very civil to thim, as I heerd the Frinch was 
always mighty p'lite intirely — and I thought I'd 
show them I knew what good manners was. 

" So I took off my hat, and making a low bow, 
siys I, ' God save all here,' says I. 

" Well, to be sure, they all stopt ating at wanst, 
and began to stare at me, and faith they almost 
looked me out of countenance — and I thought to 
myself it was not good inanners at all — more be 
token from furriners, which they call so mighty 
p'lite ; but I never minded that, in regard of 
wantin' a gridiron ; ' and so,' says I, ' I beg your 
pardon,' says I, ' for the liberty I take, but it's 
only bein' in disthress in regard of ating,' says I, 
' that I make bowld to throuble yez, and if you 
could lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I, ' I'd 
be intirely obleeged to ye.' 

" They all stared at me twice worse nor be- 
fore, and with that, says I (knowing what was 
in their minds), ' Indeed it's thrue for you,' says I ; 
' I'm tatthered to pieces, and God knows I look 
quare enough, but it's by raison of the storm,' says 
I, ' which dhruv us ashore here below, and we're 
all starvin',' says I. 

" So thin they began to look at each other 
agin, and myself, seeing at wanst dirty thoughts 
was in their heads, and that they tuk me for a 
poor beggar comin' to crave charity — with that, 



332 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



says I, ' Oh ! not at all,' says I, ' by no manes ; we 
have plenty o' mate ourselves, there below, and 
we'll dhress it,' says I, ' if you would be plazed to 
lind us the loan of a gridiron,' says I, makin' a low 
bow. 

" Well sir, ■with that throth they stared at me 
twice worse nor ever, and faith I began to think 
that maybe the captain was wrong, and that it was 
not France at all at all — and so says I, ' I beg 
pardon sir,' says I, to a fine ould man, with a head 
of hair as white as silver — ' maybe I'm undher a 



" ' Well, sir, the ould chap begun to munseer me, 
but the divil a bit of a gridiron he'd gie me ; and 
so I began to think they were all neygars, for all 
their fine manners ; and throth my blood began to 
rise, and says I, ' By my sowl, if it was you was in 
disthress,' says I, ' and if it was to ould Ireland you 
kem, it's not only the gridiron they'd give you if 
you ax'd it, but something to put an it too, and a 
dhrop of dhrink into the bargain, and cead mille 
failte.' 

" Well, the word cead mille failte seemed to 




'Would tou lind me the loan of a gridikon ? ' sats I." (Drawn ly M. Stretch., 



mistake,' says I, ' but I thought I was in France, 
sir ; aren't you furriners ? ' says I — ' Parly voo 
fronrjsay ? ' 

" ' We, munseer,' says he. 

" ' Then would you lind me the loan of a grid- 
iron,' says I, ' if you plaze 1 ' 

" Oh, it was thin that they stared at me as if I 
had siven heads ; and faith m_yself began to feel 
fiusthered like, and onaisy- and so says I, making 
a bow and scrape agin, 'I .'mow it's a liberty I 
take, sir,' says I, 'but it's only in the regard of 
bein' cast away, and if you plaze sir,' says I, ' Farbj 
voo frongsay 1 ' 

" We, munseer,' says he, mighty sharp. 

" ' Then would you lind me the loan of a giid- 
iron 1 ' says I, ' and you'll obleege me.' 



sthreck his heart, and the ould chap cocked h;'s 
ear, and so I thought I'd give him another offer, 
and make him sinsible at last ; and so says I, 
wanst more, quite slow, that he might undher- 
stand — Parly — voo^rongsay, munseer 1 '- 

" ' We, munseer,' says he. 

" ' Then lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I, 
' and bad scran to you.' 

" Well, bad win' to the bit of it he'd gi' me, and 
the ould chap begins bowin' and scrapin', and said 
something or other about a long tongs. 

" ' Phoo ! the divil sweep yourself and your 
tongs,' says I, ' I don't want a tongs at all at all ; 
but can't you listen to raison 1 ' says I—' Parly 
voo frongsay ? ' 

" ' We, munseer.' 



THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 



333 



" ' Then liud me the loan of a gridiron,' says I, 
'and howld your prate.' 

" Well, what would you think but he shook his 
owld noddle, as much as to say he wouldn't ; and 
so says I, ' Bad cess to the likes o' that I ever seen 
— throth if you were in my country, it's not that- 
a-way they'd use you ; the cm-se o' the crows on 
you, you owld sinner,' says I, ' the divil a longer 
I'll darken your dure.' 

" So he seen I was vex'd, and I thought as I 
was turnin' away, I see him begin, to relint, and 
that his couscience troubled him ; and says I, 
turnin' back, ' Well, I'll give you one chance more 
— you owld thief — are you a Christian at all at 
alii are you a furriner,' says 1, ' that all the world 



calls so p'lite 1 Bad luck to you, do you undher- 
stand you own language ? — Fady voo frongsay 1 ' 
says I. 

" ' We, munseer,' says he. 

" ' Then thundher and turf,' says I, ' will you 
lind nie the loan of a gridiron ? ' 

'' Well, sir, the divil resave the bit of it he'd r i' 
me — and so with that, ' the curse o' the hungry en 
you, you owld negai'dly villain,' says I : ' the back 
o' my hand and the sowl o' my foot to you ; that 
you may want a gridiron yourself yet,' says I ; 
' and wherever I go, high and low, rich and poor, 
shall hear o' you,' says I ; and with that I lift them 
there, sir, and kem away — and in throth it's often 
since that / ihotight that it was i-emm'lxible." 



THE VISIOISr OF THE MAID OE OELEANS. 

[By EOBEKT SOITTHET.] 



^^E LEANS was huslvd in sleep. 
|3 Stretch'd on her couch 

The delegated Maiden lay ; with toU 
Ka> pg^ fe> Exhausted, and sore anguish, soon she 
closed 
Her heavy eyelids, not reposing then. 
For bu,sy phantasy in other scenes 
Awaken'd : whether that superior powers, 
By ■ndse permission, prompt the midnight dream, 
Instructing best the passive faculty ; 
Or that the soul, escaped its fleshy clog, 
Flies free, and soars amid the invisible world. 
And all things are that seem. 

Along a moor, 
Barren, and wide, and drear, and desohite, 
She roam'd, a wanderer through the cheerless 

night. 
Far through the silence of the unbroken plain 
The bittern's boom was heard ; hoarse, heavy, 



It made accordant music to the scene. 

Black clouds, driven fast before the stormy wind. 

Swept shadowing : through their broken folds the 

moon 
Struggled at times with transitory ray, 
And made the moving darkness visible. 
And now arrived beside a fenny lake 
She stands, amid whose stagnate waters, hoarse 
The long reeds rustled to the gale of night. 
A time-worn bark receives the maid, impell'd 
By powers unseen ; then did the moon display 
Where through the crazy vessel's yawning side 
The muddy waters oozed. A woman guides. 
And spreads the sail before the wind, which 

moan'd 
As melancholy mournful to her ear 



As ever by a dungeon'd wretch was heard 
Howling at evening round his prison towers. 
Wan was the pilot's countenance, her eyes 
Hollow, and her sunk cheeks were furrow'd deep, 
Channell'd by tears! a few grey locks hung down 
Beneath her hood : and through the maiden's 

veins 
Chill crept the blood, when, as the night breeze 

pass'd. 
Lifting her tattered mantle, coU'd around 
She saw a serpent gnawing at her heart. 

The plumeless bats with short shrill note flit by, 
And the night-raven's scream came fitfully. 
Borne on the hollow blast. Eager the Maid 
Look'd to the shore, and now upon the bank 
Leapt, joyful to escape, yet trembling still 
In recollection. 

There, a mouldering pile 
Stretch'd its wide ruins, o'er the plain below 
Casting a gloomy shade, save where the moon 
Shone through its fretted windows : the dark yew, 
Withering with age, branch'd there its nal.cd 

roots, 
And there the melancholy cypress rear'd 
Its head ; the earth was heaved with many a 

mound. 
And here and there a half-demolish'd tomb. 

And now, amid the ruin's darkest shade. 
The virgin's eye beheld where pale blue flames 
Rose wavering, now just gleaming from the earth, 
And now in darkness drown'd. An aged man 
Sate near, seated on what in long-past days 
Had been some sculptured monument, now fallen 
And half obscured by moss, and gather'd heaps 



334 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



Of wither'd yew-leaves and earth-mouldering 

bones. 
His eyes were large and rayless, and fix'd full 
Upon the j\Iaid ; the tomb-fires on his face 
Shed a blue light ; his face was of the hue 
Of death ; his limbs were mantled in a shroud. 
Then with a deep heart-terrifying voice, 
Exclaim'd the spectre, "Welcome to these realms. 
These regions of despair, O thou whose steps 
Sorrow hath guided to my sad abodes ! 
Welcome to my drear empire, to this gloom 
Eternal, to this everlasting night, 
Where never morning darts the enlivening ray, 
AVhere never shines the sun, but all is dark. 
Dark as the bosom of their gloomy king." 

So saying, he arose, and drawing on. 
Her to the abbey's inner ruin led, 
Resisting not his guidance. Through the roof 
Oncj fretted and emblazed, but broken now 
In part, elsewhere all open to the sky. 
The moonbeams enter'd, chequer'd here, and here 
With unimpeded light. The ivy twined 
Round the dismantled columns ; imaged forms 
Of saints and warlike chiefs, moss-canker'd now 
And mutilate, lay strewn upon the ground, 
With crumbled fragments, crucifixes fallen. 
And rusted trophies. ^Meantime overhead 
Roar'd the loud blast, and froui the tower the owl 
Scream'd as the tempest shook her secret nest. 
He, silent, led her on, and often paused, 
And pointed, that her eye might contemplate 
At leisure the drear scene. 

He dragg'd her on 
Through a low iron door, down broken stairs ; 
Then a cold horror through the ^Maiden's frame 
Crept, for she stood amid a vault, and saw. 
By the sepulchral lamp's dim glaring light, 
The fragments of the dead. 

" Look here ! " he cried, 
" Damsel, look here ! survey this house of death ; 
O soon to tenant it ; soon to increass 
These trophies of mortality, . . . for hence 
Is no return. Gaze here ; behold this skull. 
These eyeless sockets, and these unflesh'd jaws, 
That with their ghastly grinning seem to mock 
Thy perishable charms ; for thus thy cheek 
Must moulder. Child of grief ! shrinks not thy 

soul. 
Viewing these horrors 1 trembles not thy heart 
At the dread thought that here its life's blood 

soon 
Shall stagnate, and the finely-fibred frame 
Now warm in life and feeling, mingle soon 
With the cold clod 1 thing horrible to think, 
Yet in thought only, for reality 
Is none of suffering here ; here all is peace ; 
No nerve will throb to anguish in the grave. 
Dreadful it is to think of losing life. 



But having lost, knowledge of loss is not. 
Therefore no ill. Oh, wherefore then delay 
To end all IDs at once ! " 

So spake Despair. 
The vaulted roof echoed his hollow voice, 
And all again was silence. Quick her heart 
Panted. He placed a dagger in her hand, 
And cried again, •' Oh, wherefore then delay ! 
One blow, and rest for ever ! " On the fiend 
Dark scowled the virgin with indignant eye. 
And threw the dagger down. He next his heart 
Replaced the murderous steel, and drew the Maid 
Along the downward vault. 

The damp earth gave 
A dim sound as they pass'd: the tainted air 
Was cold, and heavy with unwholesome dew.s. 
" Behold ! " the fiend exclaim'd, " how loathsomely 
The fleshly remnant of mortality 
Jloulders to clay ! " then fixing his broad eye 
Full on her face, he pointed where a corpse 
Lay livid ; she beheld, with horrent look, 
The spectacle abhorr'd by living man. 

" Look here ! " Despair pursued, "this loathsomeL 
mass 
Was once as lovely and as full of life 
As, damsel, thou art now. Those deep-sunk eyes 
Once beam'd the mild light of intelligence. 
And where thou seest the pamper'd flesh-wornn 

trail. 
Once the white bosom heaved. She fondly 

thought 
That at the hallowed altar soon the priest 
Should bless her coming union, and the torch 
Its joyful lustre o'er the hall of joy 
Cast on her nuptial evening : earth to earth 
That priest consign 'd her, for her lover went 
By glory lured to war, and perish'd there ; 
Nor she endured to live. Ha I fades thy cheek ? 
Dost thou then, JIaiden, tremble at the tale ? 
Look here ! behold the youthful paramour I 
The self -devoted hero ! " 

Fearfully 
The Maid look'd down, and saw the well-known 

face 
Of Theodore. In thoughts unspeakable, 
Convulsed with horror, o'er her face she clasp'd 
Her cold damp hands: "Shrink not," the phan- 
tom cried, 
" Gaze on ! " and unrelentingly he grasp'd 
Her quivering arm : "this lifeless mouldering clay,. 
As well thou know'st, was warm with all the glow 
Of youth and love ; this is the hand that cleft 
Proud Salisbury's crest, now motionless in death,. 
Unable to protect the ra'vaged frame 
From the foul offspring of mortality 
That feed on heroes. Though long years were 

thine 
Yet never more would life reanimate 



THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 



335 



This slaughter'd youth ; slaughtered for thee ! for 

thou 
Didst lead him to the battle from his home, 
Where else he had survived to good old age : 
In thy defence he died : strike, then ! destroy 
Remorse with life." 

The Maid stood motionless. 
And, vi'istless what she did, with trembling hand 
Received the dagger. Startling then, she cried, 
■" Avaunt, Despair ! Eternal Wisdom deals 
Or peace to man, or misery, for his good 
Alike design'd ; and shall the creature cry, 
■' Why hast thou done this ? ' and with impious 

pride 
Destroy the life God gave 1 " 

The fiend rejoin'd, 
" And thou dost deem it impious to destroy 
'The life God gave 1 What, Maiden, is the lot 
Assign'd to mortal man ? born but to drag, 
Through life's long pilgrimage, the wearying load 
Of being ; care-corroded at the heart ; 
Assail'd by all the numerous train of ills 
That flesh inherits ; till at length worn out, 
This is his consummation ! — Think again ! 
What, Maiden, canst thou hope from lengthen'd 

life 
But lengthen'd sorrow ? If protracted long, 
Till on the bed of death thy feeble limbs 
Stretch out their languid length, oh think what 

thoughts. 
What agonising feelings, in that hour, 
Assail the sinking heart ! slow beats the pulse, 
Dim grows the eye, and clammy drops bedew 
The shuddering frame ; then in its mightiest force, 
Mightiest in impotence, the love of life 
Seizes the throbbing heart ; the faltering lips 
Pour out the impious prayer that fain would change 
The Unchangeable's decree ; surrounding friends 
Sob round the sufferer, wet his cheeks with tears ; 
And all he loved in life embitters death. 

" Such, ilaiden, are the pangs that wait the hour 
Of easiest dissolution ! yet weak man 
Resolves, in timid piety, to live ; 
And veiling fear in superstition's garb, 
He calls her resignation ! 

Coward wretch ! 
Fond coward, thus to make his reason war 
Against his reason. Insect as he is. 
This sport of chance, this being of a day. 
Whose whole existence the next cloud may blast, 
Believes himself the care of heavenly powers, 
That -God regards man, miserable man. 
And preaching thus of power and providence, 
Will crush the reptile that may cross his path ! 

"Fool that thou art ! the Being that permits 
Existence, gives to man the worthless boon : 
A goodly gift to those who, fortune-blest. 



Bask in the sunshine of prosperity. 
And such do well to keep it. But to one 
Sick at the heart with misery, and sore 
With many a hard unmerited affliction. 
It is a hair that chains to wretchedness 
The slave who dares not burst it ! 

Thinkest thou. 
The parent, if his child should unreeall'd 
Return and fall upon his neck, and cry, 
' Oh ! the wide world is comfortless, and full 
Of fleeting joys and heart-consuming cares, 
I can be only happy in my home 
With thee — my friend ;— my father ! ' Thinkesi 

thou 
That he would thrust him as an outcast forth 1 
Oh ! he would clasp the truant to his heart. 
And love the trespass. " 

Whilst he spake, his eye 
Dwelt on the Maiden's cheek, and read her soul 
Struggling within. In trembling doubt she stood, 
Even as a wretch, whose famish'd entrails crave 
Supply, before him sees the poison'd food 
In greedy horror. 

Yet, not silent long. 
" Eloquent tempter, cease ' " the Maiden cried, 
" What though affliction be my portion here, 
Thinkest thou I do not feel high thoughts of joy, 
Of heart-ennobling joy, when I look back 
Upon a life of duty well perform'd, 
Then lift mine eyes to heaven, and there in faith 
Know my reward 1 ... I grant, were this life all, 
Was there no morning to the tomb's long night, 
If man did mingle with the senseless clod, 
Himself as senseless, then wert thou indeed 
A wise and friendly comforter ! . . . But, fiend. 
There is a morning to the tomb's long night, 
A dawn of glory, a reward in heaven. 
He shall not gain who never merited. 
If thou did'st know the worth of one good deed 
In life's last hour, thou would'st not bid me lose 
The precious privilege, while life endures. 
To do my Father's will. A mighty task 
Is mine, ... a glorious call. France looks to me 
For her deliverance. " 

" Maiden, thou hast done 
Thy mission here, " the unbaffled fiend replied : 
" The foes are fled from Orleans : thou, perchance 
Exulting in the pride of victory, 
Forgottest him who perish'd ; yet albeit 
Thy hardened heart forget the gallant youth. 
That hour allotted canst thou not escape. 
That dreadful hour, when contumely and shame 
Shall sojourn in thy dungeon. Wretched maid ! 
Destined to drain the cup of bitterness. 
Even to its dregs, . . . England's inhuman chiefs 
Shall scoff thy sorrows, blacken thy pure fame. 
Wit-wanton it with lewd barbarity. 
And force such burning blushes to the cheek 
Of virgin modesty, that thou shalt wish 



336 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



The earth might cover thee. In that last hour, 
When tliy bruis'd breast shall heave beneath the 

chains 
That link thee to the stake, a spectacle 
For the brute multitude, and thou shalt hear 
Mockery more painful than the circling flames 
Which then consume thee ; wUt thou not in vain 
Then wish my friendly aid ? then wish thine ear 
Had drank my words of comfort ? that thy hand 
Had grasp'd the dagger, and in death preserved 
Insulted modesty I " 

Her glowing cheek 
Blush'd crimson ; her wide eye on vacancy 
Was fix'd ; her breath short panted. The cold 

fiend, 
Grasping her hand, exclaim'd, " Too timid Maid, 
So long repugnant to the healing aid 
My friendship proffers, now shalt thou behold 
The allotted length of life." 

He stamp'd the earth, 
And dragging a huge coffin as his car, 
Two Ghouls came on, of form more fearful-foul 
Than ever palsied in her mldest dream 
Hag-ridden Superstition. Then Despair 
Ssized on the Maid, whose curdling blood stood 

still, 
And placed her in the seat, and on they pass'd 
Adown the deep descent. A meteor light 
Shot from the dcemons, as they dragg'd along 
The unwelcome load, and mark'd their brethren 

feast 
On carcases. 

Below, the vault dilates 
Its ample bulk. " Look here ! " — Despair addrest 
The shuddering virgin, " see the dome of Death ! " 
It was a spacious cavern, hewn amid 
The entrails of the earth, as though to form 
A grave for all mankind : no eye could reach 
Its distant bounds. There, throned in dai-kness, 

dwelt 
The unseen power of Death. 

Here stopt the Ghouls, 
Iteaching the destined spot. The fiend .stepped 

out, 
.A.nd from the coffin as he led the Maid, 
Exclaim'd, " Where mortal never stood before. 
Thou standest : look around this boundless vault ; 
Observe the dole that nature deals to man. 
And learn to know thy friend." 

She answer'd not, 
Observing where the Fates their several tasks 
Plied ceaseless. " !Mark how long the shortest 

web 
Allow'd to man ! " he cried ; " observe how soon. 
Twined round yon never-resting wheel, they 

change 
Their snowy hue, darkening through many a 

shade. 
Till Atropos relentless shuts the sheers. " 



Too true he spake, for of the countless threads, 
Drawn from the heap, as white as unsuun'd snoW; 
Or as the spotless lily of the vale. 
Was never one beyond the little span 
Of infancy untainted ; few there were 
But lightly tinged ; more of deep crimson hue, 
Or deeper sable dyed. Two Genii stood, 
StiU as the web of being was drawn forth. 
Sprinkling their powerful drops. From ebon urn. 
The one unsparing dash'd the bitter drops 
Of woe ; and as he dash'd, his dark-brown brow 
Eelax'd to a hard smile. The milder form 
Shed less profusely there his lesser store ; 
Sometimes with tears increasing the scant boon, 
Compassionating man ; and happy he 
Who on his thread those precious tears receives ; 
If it be happiness to have the pulse 
That throbs with pity, and in such a world 
Of wretchedness, the generous heart that aches 
With anguish at the sight of human woe. 

To her the fiend, weU hoping now success, 
" This is thy thread ; observe how short the span ; 
And little doth the evil Genius spare 
His bitter tincture there. " The Maiden saw 
Calmly. " Now gaze ! " the tempter fiend exclaim'd. 
And placed again the poniard in her hand. 
For Superstition, with a burning torch, 
Approach'd the loom. " This, damsel, is thy fate ! 
The hour draws on — now strike the dagger home ! 
Strike now, and be at rest ! " 

The maid replied, 
" Or to prevent or change the will of Heaven, 
Impious I strive not : let that will be done ! " 

She spake, and lo ! celestial radiance beam'd 
Amid tJie air, such odours wafting now 
As erst came blended with the evening gale 
From Eden's bowers of bliss. An angel form 
Stood by the ilaid ; his wings, ethereal white, 
Flash'd like the diamond in the noontide sun, 
Dazzling her mortal eye : all else appear'd 
Her Theodore. 

Amazed she saw : the fiend 
Was fled, and on her ear the well-known voice 
Sounded, though now more musically sweet 
Than ever yet had thrill'd her soul attuned, 
When eloquent aftection fondly told 
The day-dreams of delight. 

" Beloved Maid ! 
Lo ! I am with thee, still thy Theodore ! 
Hearts in the holy bands of love combined. 
Death has no power to sever. Thou art mine ! 
A little while and thou shalt dwell with me 
In scenes where sorrow is not. Cheerily 
Tread thou the path that leads thee to the grave, 
Rough though it be and painful, for the grave 
Is but the threshold of eternity," 



DRAWN FOR A SOLDIER. 



37 



DEAWN FOE A SOLDIEE. 

" Anna Vinimque Canoo." 
[By Thomas Hood.] 




WAS once— for a few hours only — in the 
militia. I suspect I was in part answerable 
for my o-wti mishap. There is a story in 
Joe Miller of a man who, being pressed to 
serve his majesty on another element, 
pleaded hi-> polite breeding, to the gang, as a good 
grovmd of exemption ; but was told that the crew 
being a set of sad unmannerly dogs, a Chesterfield 
was the very character they wanted. The militia- 
men acted, I presume, on the same principle. Their 



Gut of the kingdom — "except in case of an in- 
vasion." In vain I represented that we were 
" locals ; " they had heard of local diseases, and 
thought there might be wounds of the same descrip- 
tion. In vain I explained that we were not troops 
of the line ; — they could see nothing to choose 
between being shot in a line, or in any other figure. 
I told them next that I was not obliged to " serve 
my.self ; " — but they answered, " 'twas so much the 
harder I should be oliliged to serve any one else." 




IHE POOR SERGEANT LOOKED FOOLISH ENOUGH. 



customary schedule was forwarded to me, at 
Brighton, to fiU up, and in a moment of incautious 
hilarity — induced, perhaps, by the absence of aU 
business or employment, except pleasure — I wrote 
myself down in the descriptive column as " Quite 
a Gentleman." 

The conseciuence followed immediately. A pre- 
cept, addressed by the High Constable of West- 
minster to the Low ditto of the parish of St. M — , 
and endorsed with my name, informed me that it 
had turned up in that involuntary lottery, the ballot. 

At the sight of the orderly, who thought proper 
to deliver the document into no other hands than 
mine, my mother-in-law cried, and my wife fainted 
on the spot. They had no notion of any distinctions 
in military service — a soldier was a soldier — and 
they imagined that, on the very morrow, I might 
be ordered abroad to a fresh Waterloo. They 
were unfortunately ignorant of that benevolent 
provision, which absolved the militia from going 
2q# 



My being sent abroad, they said, would be the death 
of them, for they had witnessed at Eamsgate the 
embarkation of the Walcheren expedition, and too 
well remembered " the misery of the soldiers' wives 
at seeing their husbands in ti-ansports !" 

I told them that at the very worst, if I should be 
sent abroad, there was no reason why I should not 
return again ; — but they both declared, they never 
did and never would believe in those " Eeturns of 
the Killed and Wounded." 

The discussion was in this stage when it was 
interrupted by another loud single knock at the 
door, a report equal in its effects on us to that of 
the memorable cannon-shot at Brussels ; and before 
we could recover ourselves, a strapping sergeant 
entered the parlour with a huge bow, or rather 
rainbow, of party-coloured ribbons in his cap. He 
came, he said, to offer a substitute for me ; but I 
was prevented from reply by the indignant females 
asking him in the same breath, " Who and What 



338 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



did he think could be a substitute for a son and a 
husband ? " 

The poor sergeant looked foolish enough at this 
turn ; but he was still more abashed when the two 
anxious ladies began to cross-examine him on the 
length of his services abroad, and the number of 
his wounds, the campaigns of the militiamen having 
been confined doubtless to Hounslow, and his 
bodily marks militant to the three stripes on his 
sleeve. Parrying these awkward questions he en- 
deavoured to prevail upon me to see the proposed 
proxy, a fine young fellow, he assured me, of un- 
usual stature ; but I told him it was quite an in- 
different point with me whether he was 6-feet-2 or 
2-feet-6, in short, whether he was as tall as the 
flag, or " under the standard." 

The truth is, I reflected that it was a time of 
profound peace, that a civil war or an invasion was 
very unlikely ; and as for an occasional drill, that 
I could make shift, like Lavater, to right-about- 
face. 

Accordingly, I declined seeing the substitute, and 
dismissed the sergeant with a note to the war- 
secretary to this purport — " That I considered my- 
self drawn, and expected therefore to be well 



quai-terd. That, under the circumstances of the 
country, it would probably be unnecessary for 
militiamen ' to be mustarded ; ' but that if his 
majesty did ' call me out ' I hoped I should ' give 
him satisfaction.' " 

The females were far from being pleased with 
this billet. They talked a great deal of moral 
suicide, wilful murder, and seeking the bubble 
reputation in the cannon's mouth ; but I shall ever 
think that I took the proper course, for, after the 
lapse of a few hours, two more of the general's red- 
coats, or general p)ostmen, brought me a large packet 
sealed with the war-office seal, and superscribed 
" Henry Hardinge," by which I was officially 
absolved from serving on horse or on foot, or on 
both together, then and thereafter. 

And why, I know not — unless his majesty 
doubted the handsomeness of discharging me in 
particular, without letting off the rest ; — but so it 
was, that in a short time afterwards there issued a 
proclamation by which the services of all militia- 
men were for the present dispensed with, — and we- 
were left to pursue our several avocations, — of 
course all the lighter in our spirits for being dis- 
embodied. 



THE R IBBONMAJSr. 

[By William Cakleton.] 




HE night was stormy, but without 
rain ; it was rather dark too, though 
not so as to prevent us from seeing 
the clouds careering swiftly through 
the air. The dense curtain which had 
overhung and obscured the horizon was 
gk^ now broken, and large sections of the sky 
^^ were clear, and thinly studded with stars 
that looked dim and watery, as did indeed the 
whole firmament ; for in some places large clouds 
were still visible, threatening a continuance of 
severe tempestuous weather. The road appeared 
washed and gravelly, every dyke was full of yellow 
water, and each little rivulet and larger stream 
dashed its hoarse music in our ears ; the blast, too, 
was cold, fierce, and wintry, sometimes driving us 
back to a stand-still, and again, when a turn in the 
road would bring it in our backs, whirling us along 
for a few steps vidth involuntary rapidity. At 
length the fated dwelling became visible, and a 
short consultation was held in a sheltered place 
between the captain and the two parties who 
seemed so eager for its destruction. Their fire- 
arms were now charged, and their bayonets 
and short pikes, the latter shod and pointed 
with iron, were also got ready. The live 



coal which was brought in the small pot had 
become extinguished ; but to remedy this two or 
three persons from the remote parts of the parish 
entered a cabin on the wayside, and, under pre- 
tence of lighting their own and their comrades' 
pipes, procured a coal of tire, for so they called a 
lighted turf. From the time we left the chapel 
until this moment a most profound silence had 
been maintained, a circumstance which, when I 
considered the number of persons present, and the 
mysterious and dreaded object of their journey^ 
had a most appalling effect upon my spirits. 

At length we arrived within fifty perches of the 
house, walking in a compact body, and with as 
little noise as possible. But it seemed as if the 
very elements had conspired to frustrate our 
design ; for, on advancing within the shade of the 
farm-hedge, two or three persons found themselves 
up to the middle in water, and on stooping to- 
ascertain more accurately the state of the place, 
we could see nothing but one immense sheet of it 
spread like a lake over the meadows which sur- 
rounded the spot we wished to reach. 

Fatal night ! the very recollection of it, when 
associated with the fearful tempest of the elements, 
grows, if that were possible, yet more wild and 



THE RIBBONMAN. 




revolting. Had we been engiged m any — ^^ 
innocent or benevolent enterpube, tlieie was 
something in our situation just now that had a 
touch of interest in it to a mind imbued with a 
relish for the savage beauties of nature. There we 
stood, about a hundred and thirty in number, 
our dark forms bent forwards, peering into the 
dusky expanse of water, with its dim gleams of 
reflected light, broken by the weltering of the 
mimic waves into ten thousand fragments, whilst 
the few stars that overhung it in the firmament 
appeared to shoot through it in broken lines, and 
to be multiplied fifty-fold in the many-faced mirror 
on which we gazed. 

Over this was a stormy sky, and around us a 
darkness throiigh which we could only distinguish 
in outline the nearest objects, whilst the wild wind 
swept strongly and dismally upon us. When it 
was discovered that the common pathway to the 
house was inundated, we were about to abandon 
our object and return home ; the captain, however, 
stooped down low for a moment, and, aln"io.st 
closing his eyes, looked along the surface of the 
waters, and then raising himself very calmly, said, 
in his usual quiet tone, " Yees needn't go back, 
boys, I've found a path ; jist follow me." He 
immediately took a more circuitous direction, by 
which we reached a causeway that had been raised 
for the purpose of giving a free passage to and 
from the house during such inundations as the 
present. Along this we had advanced more than 
lialf way, when we discovered a break in it, which, 
as afterwards appeared, had that night been made 
by the strength of the flood. This, by means of 
our sticks and pikes, we found to be about three 
ieet deep and eight yards broad. Again we were 



at a loss how to proceed, when the fertile brain of 
the captain devised a method of crossing it. 

" Boys," said he ; " of course you've all played 
at leap-frog — very well, strip and go in a dozen of 
you ; lean one upon the shoulders of another from 
this to the opposite bank, where one must stand 
facing the outside man, both their shoulders agin 
one another, that the outside man may be sup- 
ported — then lue can creep over you, an' a decent 
bridge you'll be, any way." This was the work of 
only a few minutes, and in less than ten we were 
all safely over. 

Merciful heaven ! how I sicken at the recollection 
of what is to follow ! On reaching the dry bank, 
we proceeded instantly, and in profound silence, to 
the house ; the captain divided us into companies, 
and then assigned to each division its proper 
.station. The two parties who had been so vin- 
dictive all the night he kept about himself ; for of 
those who were present they only were in his con- 
fidence, and knew his nefarious purpose. Their 
number was about fifteen. Having made these 
dispositions, he, at the head of about five of them, 
approached the house on the windy side ; for the 
fiend possessed a coolness which enabled him to 
seize upon every possible advantage. That he had 
combustibles about him was evident, for in less 
than fifteen minutes nearly one half of the house 



340 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS, 



was enveloped in flames. On seeing this, the 
others rushed over to the spot vfhere he and his 
gang -were standing, and remonstrated earnestly, 
but in vain. The flames now burst forth with 
renewed violence, and, as they flung their strong- 
light upon the faces of the foremost group, it is 
impossible to imagine anything more satanic than 
their countenances, now worked up into a 
paroxysm of infernal triumph at their own 
revenge. The captain's look had lost all its 
calmness, every feature started out into distinct 
malignity, the cui've in his brow was deep, and 
ran up to the root of the hair, dividing his face 
into two sections, that did not seem to have been 
designed for each other. His lips were half open, 
and the corners of his mouth a little brought back 
on each side, like those of a man expressing 
intense hatred and triumph over an enemy who is 
in the death-struggle under his grasp. His eyes 
blazed from beneath his knit eyebrows with a fire 
that seemed to have been lighted up in the infernal 
pit itself. It is unnecessary and only painful to 
describe the rest of his gang. 

When the others attempted to intercede for the 
lives of the inmates, there were at least fifteen 
loaded guns and pistols levelled at them. 
" Another word," said the captain, " an' you're 
a corpse where you stand, or the first man who 
will dare to speak for them. No, no ! it wasn't to 
spare them we came here ' No mercy ' is the 
Ijassword for the night ; an' by the sacred oath I 
swore beyant in the chapel, any one among yees 
that will attimpt to show it will find none at my 
hand. Surround the house, boys, I tell ye ; I 
hear them stirring — Wo mercy — no quarther — is 
the ordher of the night." 

Such was his command over these misguided 
creatures that in an instant there was a ring 
round the house to prevent the escape of the 
unhappy inmates, should the raging element give 
them time to attempt it ; for none present dared 
withdraw from the scene, not only from an 
apprehension of the captain's present vengeance, 
or that of his gang, but because they knew that, 
even had they then escaped, an early and certain 
death awaited them from a quarter against which 
they had no means of defence. The hour now 
was about half -past two o'clock. Scarcely had the 
last words escaped from the captain's lips, when 
one of the windows of the house was broken, and 
a human head, having the hair in a blaze, was 
descried — apparently a woman's, if one might 
judge by the profusion of burning tresses, and 
the softness of the tones, notwithstanding that it 
called, or rather shrieked, aloud for help and 
mercy. The only reply to this was the whoop 
from the captain and his gang of no mercy — " No 
mercy ! " and that instant the former and one of 
the latter rushed to the spot, and ere the action 



could be perceived, the head was transfixed with a 
bayonet and a pike, both having entered it 
together. The word mercy was divided in her 
mouth ; a short silence ensued, the head hung 
down on the window, but was instantly tossed 
back into the flames. 

This action occasioned a cry of horror from all 
present except the gang and their leader, which 
startled and enraged the latter so much that he 
ran towards one of them, and had his bayonet, 
now reeking with the blood of his innocent victim, 
raised to plunge it in his body, when, dropping 
the point, he said, in a piercing whisper that 
hissed in the ears of all : " It's no use noiv, you 
know — if one's to hang all will hang ; so our 
safest way, you persave, is to lave none of them to 
tell the story. Ye map go now if you wish, but it 
won't save a hair of your heads. You cowardly- 
set ! I knew if I had tould yees the sport that 
none of ye except my oum boys would come, so I 
jist played a thrick upon you ; but remember what 
you are sworn to, and stand to the oath ye tuck." 

Unhappilj', notwithstanding the wetness of the 
preceding weather, the materials of the house 
were extremely combustible ; the whole dwelling 
was now one body of glowing flame, yet the 
shouts and shrieks within rose awfully above its 
crackling and the voice of the storm, for the wind 
once more blew in gusts, and with great violence. 
The doors and windows were all torn open, and 
such of those within as had escaped the flames 
rushed towards them, for the purpose of further 
escape, and of claiming mercy at the hands of 
their destroyers ; but whenever they appeared, the 
unearthly cry of " No mercy ! " rung upon their 
ears for a moment, and for a moment only, for 
they were flung back at the points of the weapons 
which the demons had brought with them to make 
the work of vengeance more certain 

As yet there were many persons in the house, 
whose cry for life was strong as despair, and who 
clung to it with all the awakened powers of 
reason and instinct ; the ear of man could hear 
nothing so strongly calculated to stifle the demon 
of cruelty and revenge within him as the long and 
wailing shrieks which rose beyond the elements, 
in tones that were carried off rapidly upon th& 
blast, until they died away in the darkness that 
lay behind the surrounding hills. Had not the 
house been in a solitary situation, and the hour 
the dead of night, any person sleeping within a 
moderate distance must have heard them; for 
such a cry of sorrow, deepening into a yell of 
despair, was almost sufficient to awaken the dead 
It was lost, however, upon the hearts and ears that 
heard it ; to them— though, in justice be it said, to 
only comparatively s few of them — it was as 
delightful as the tones of soft and entrancing 



THE RIBBONMAK, 



S-)! 



The claims of the poor sufferers were now modi- 
fied : they supplicated merely to suffer death at 
the hands of their enemies ; they were willing to 
bear that, provided they should be allowed to 
escape from the flames. But no ; the horrors of 
the conflagration were calmly and malignantly 
gloried in by their merciless assassins, who deli- 
berately flung them back into all their tortures. 
Ik the course of a few minutes a man appeared 



as he looked, the indescribable horror which flitt>'d 
over his features might have worked upon Satar 
himself to relent. 

His words were few. " My child," said he, " is 
still safe ; she is an infant, a young creature tliat 
never harmed you nor any one — she is stUl safe 
Your mothers, your wives, have young, innoceni 
children like it — oh, spare her ! Think for a 
moment that it's one of your own ; spare it, as 




The Tike. (Di-mra bi; J. Bell.) 



upon the side-wall of the house, nearly naked : 
his figure, as he stood against the sky in horrible 
reKef, was so finished a picture of woe-begone 
agony and supplication that it is yet as distinct in 
my memory as if I were again present at the 
scene. Every muscle, now in motion by the 
powerful agitation of his sufferings, stood out 
upon his limbs and neck, giving him an appear- 
ance of desperate strength, to which by this time 
he must have been wrought ; the perspiration 
poured from his frame, and the veins and arteries 
of his neck were inflated to a surprising thickness. 
Every moment he looked down into tlie thick 
flames which were rising to where ho stood ; and. 



you hope to meet a just God ; or, if you don't, in 
mercy shoot me first — put an end to me before 1 
see her burned." 

The captain approached him coolly and deli- 
berately. " You will prosecute no one now, you 
miserable informer," said he ; " you will convict nc 
more boys for taking an ould rusty gan an' pistol 
from you, or for givin' you a neighbourly knock or 
two into the bargain." Just then from a window 
opposite him proceeded the shrieks of a woman, 
who appeared at it with the infant in her arms- 
She herself was almost scorched to death, but, 
with the presence of mind and humanity of hei 
sex, she v/as about tc thrust the little babo out oT 



342 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



thb window. Tlie captain noticed this, and, 
with characteristic atrocity, thrust, with a sharp 
bayonet, tlie little innocent, along with the person 
who endeavoured to rescue it, into the red flames, 
where they both perished. This was the work of 
an instant. Again he approached the man. 
" Your child is a coal now," said he, with deli- 
berate mockery ; " I pitched it in myself on the 
point of this," showing the weapon, " and now is 
yom- turn." Saying which, he clambered up by 
the assistance of his gang, who stood with a front 
of pikes and bayonets bristling to receive the 
wretched man, should he attempt, in his despair, 
to throw himself from the wall. The captain got 
up, and, placing the point of his bayonet against 
his shoulder, flung him into the fiery element that 
raged behind him. He uttered one wild and 
piercing cry as he fell back, and no more. After 
this nothing was heard but the crackling of the 
fire and the rushing of the blast ; all that had 
possessed life within were consumed, amounting 
either to eleven or fifteen persons. 

When this was accomplished, those who took an 
active part in the murder stood for some time 
about the conflagration ; and, as it threw its red 
light upon their fierce faces and rough persons, 
soiled as they now were with smoke and black 
streaks of ashes, the scene was inexpressibly 
horrible. The faces of those who kept aloof from 
the slaughter were blanched to the whiteness of 
death ; some of them fainted, and others were in 
such agitation that they were compelled to leave 
their comrades. They became actually stiff and 
powerless with horror; yet to such a scene were they 
brought by the pernicious influence of Ribbonism. 

It was only when the last victim went down 
that the conflagration shot up into the air with 
most unbounded fury. The house was large, 
deeply thatched, and well furnished ; and the 
broad red pyramid rose up with fearful magni- 
ficence towards the sky. Abstractedly it had 
sublimity, but now it was associated with nothing 
in my mind but blood and terror. It was not, 
however, without a purpose that the captain and 
his guard stood to contemplate its effect. " Boys," 
said he, " we had better be sartin that all's safe ; 
who knows but there might be some of the 
sarpents crouchin' under a hape of rubbish, to 



come out and gibbet us to-morrow or next day. 
We had betther wait a while, any how, if it was 
only to see the blaze." 

Just then the flames rose majestically to a 
surprising height. Our eyes followed their direc- 
tion, and we perceived for the first time that the 
dark clouds above, together with the intermediate 
air, appeared to reflect back, or rather to have 
caught, the red hue of the fire. The hills and coun- 
try about us appeared with an alarming distinct- 
ness ; but the most picturesque part of it was the 
effect or reflection of the blaze on the floods that 
spread over the surrounding plains. These, in 
fact, appeared to be one broad mass of liquid 
copper ; for the motion of the breaking waters 
caught from the blaze of the high waving column 
as reflected in them, a glaring light, which eddied 
and rose and fluctuated as if the flood itself had 
been a lake of molten fire. 

Fire, however, destroys rapidly. In a short 
time the flames sank — became weak and flicker- 
ing — by and by, they only .shot out in fits — the 
crackling of the timbers died away — the surround- 
ing darkness deepened ; and, ere long, the faint 
light was overpowered by the thick volumes of 
smoke that rose from the ruins of the house and 
its murdered inhabitants. 

" Now, boys," said the captain, " all is safe ; we 
may go. Remember, every man of you, that 
you've sworn this night on the Book and altar — 
not a heretic Bible. If you perjure yourselves, 
you may hang us ; but let me tell you, for your 
comfort, that, if you do, there is them livin' that 
wiU take care the lase of your own lives will be 
but short." After this we dispersed, every man to 
his own home. 

Reader, not many months elapsed ere I saw 
the bodies of this captain, whose name was Paddy 
Devan, and all those who were actively concerned in 
the perpetration of this deed of horror, withering in 
the wind, where they hung gibbeted near the scene 
of their nefarious villany ; and, while I inwardly 
thanked Heaven for my own narrow and almost 
undeserved escape, I thought in my heart how 
seldom, even in this world, justice fails to over- 
take the murderer, and to enforce the righteous 
judgment of God, " that whoso sheddeth man',s 
blood, by man shall his blood be shed." 



BALLAD. 

[By S. C. Calvekley.] 



The auld wife sat at her ivied door, 
{Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) 

A thing she had frequently done before ; 
And her spectacles lay on her apron'd knees. 



The piper he piped on the hill-top high, 
{Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) 

Till the cowsaid," [die,"andthegoosea?k'd"Whyy' 
And the dog said nothing, but search'd for fleas. 



FALSTAFF THE VALIANT. 



343 



The farmer lie strode througli the square farmyard ; 

{Butter and eggs and a jMund of cheese) 
His last brew of ale was a trifle hard — 

The connection of which with the plot one sees. 

The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes ; 

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) 
She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies, 

As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas. 



The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips ; 

{Butter and eggs and a 2Jound of cheese) 
If you try to approach her, away she skips 

Over tables and chairs with apparent ease. 

The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair ; 

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) 
And I met with a ballad, I can't say where, 

Which wholly consisted of lines like these. 



Pakt II. 



She sat, with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks, 
{Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) 

And spake not a word. While a lady speaks 
There is hope, but she didn't even sneeze. 

She sat, with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks; 

{Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) 
She gave up mending her father's breeks. 

And let the cat roll in her new chemise. 



She sat, with her hands 'neath her burning cheeks, 
{Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) 

And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks ; 
Then she followed him out o'er the misty leas. 

Her sheep followed her, as their tails did them, 
{Butter a7id eggs and a pound of cheese) 

And this song is considered a perfect gem, 
And as to the meaning, it's what you please. 



FALSTAFF THE VALIANT. 

[By William Shakespeake.] 



Poins. Welcome, Jack. Where hast thou been \ 

Fal. A plague of aU cowards, I say, and a 
vengeance too ! marry, and amen ! — Give me a 
cup of sack, boy. — Ere I lead this Hfe long, I'll 
sew nether-stocks, and mend them, and foot them 
too. A plague of all cowards ! — Give me a cup of 
sack, rogue. — Is there no virtue extant 1 

[He drinks. 

P. Hen. Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish 
of butter (pitiful-hearted Titan), that melted at 
the sweet tale of the sun ? if thou didst, then 
behold that compound. 

Fal. You rogue, here's lime in this sack too : 
there is nothing but roguery to be found in 
villainous man : yet a coward is worse than a cup 
of sack with Ume in it : a villainous coward. — Go 
thy ways, old Jack ; die when thou wilt. If 
'manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the 
face of the earth, then am I a shotten herring. 
There live not three good men unhanged in 
England, and one of them is fat, and grows old : 
God help the while ! a bad world, I say. I would 
I were a weaver ; I could sing psalms or anything. 
A plague of all cowards, I say still. 

P. Hen. How now, wool-sack? what mutter you? 

Fal. A king's son ! If I do not beat thee out of 
thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive aU 
thy subjects afore thee like a flock of wild geese, 
I'll never wear hair on my face more. You Prince 
of Wales ! 

P. Hen. Why, what's the matter ? 



Fal. Are you not a coward ? answer me to that ; 
and Poins there ] 

Poins. 'Zounds ! ye fat-paunch, an ye call me 
coward, I'll stab thee. 

Fal. I call thee coward ! I'll see thee damned 
ere I call thee coward ; but I would give a 
thousand pound, I could run as fast as thou canst. 
You are straight enough in the shoulders ; you 
care not who sees your back ; call you that back- 
ing of your friends 1 A plague upon such back- 
ing ! give me them that will face me. — Give me 
a cup of sack : I am a rogue, if I drunk to-day. 

P. Hen. O villain ! thy lips are scarce wiped 
since thou drunk'st last. 

Fal. All's one for that. [He drinks.] A plague 
of all cowards, still say I. 

P. Hen. What's the matter ? 

Fal. Whait's the matter ? there be four of us 
here have ta'en a thousand pound this day morn- 
ing. 

P. Hen. Where is it, Jack % where is it ? 

Fal. Where is it? taken from us it is : a hun- 
dred upon poor four of us. 

P. Hen. What, a hundred, man ? 

Fal. I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword 
with a dozen of them two hours together. I have 
'scap'd by miracle. I am eight times thrust through 
the doublet ; four through the hose ; my buckler 
cut through and through ; my sword hacked like 
a hand-saw : ecce signum. I never dealt better 
since I was a man : all would not do. A plague 



344 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 




" FoL-n ROQL'ES IN BUCKRAM LET DRIVE AT ME." (Drawii by W. F. Yeajnes, R.A.) 



of all cowards ! — Let tliem speak : if they speak 
moio or less than truth, they are villains, and the 
SOILS of darkness. 

P. Hen. Speak, sirs : how was it % 

Gads. We four set upon some dozen, — 

Fal. Sixteen, at least, my lord. 

Gais. And bound them. 

Peto. No, no, they were not bound. 

FaL You rogue, they were bound, every man of 
them ; or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew. 

(jcids. As we were sharing, some six or seven 
fresh men set upon us, — 

FaL And unbound the rest, and then come in 
the other. 

P. Hen. What, fought ye with them all % 

Fal. All ? I know not what ye call all ; but if I 
fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of 
radish : if there were not two or three and fifty 
upon poor old Jack, then am I no two-legged 
Creature. 



P. Hen. Pray God, you have not murdered some 
of them. 

Fal. Nay, that's past praying for : I have 
peppered two of them : two, I am sure, I have 
paid, two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee 
what, Hal, — if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call 
me horse. Thou knowest my old ward : — here I 
lay, and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in 
buckram let drive at me, — 

P. lien. What, four ? thou saidst but two, even 
now. 

Fal. Four, Hal ; I told thee four. 

Poms. Ay, ay, he said four. 

Fal. These four came all a-front, and mainly 
thrust at me. I made me no more ado, but took 
all their seven points in my target, thus. 

P. Hen. Seven? why, there were but four, evennow. 

Fal. In buckram 1 

Poins. Ay, four, in buckram suits. 

FaL Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else. 



FALSTAFF THE VALIANT. 



345 



P. Hen. Pr'ytliee, let him alone : we shall have 
more anon. 

Fal. Dost thou hear me, Hal ? 

P. Hen. Ay, and mark thee too, Jack. 

Fal. Do so, for it is worth the listening to. 
These nine in buckram, that I told thee of, — 

P. Hen. So, two more already. 

Fal. Their points being broken, — 

Poins. Down fell their hose. 

Fal. Began to give me ground ; but I followed 
me close, came in, foot and hand, and with a 
thought seven of the eleven I paid. 

P. Hen. O naonstrous ! eleven buckram men 
grown out of two. 

Fal. But, as the devil would have it, three mis- 
begotten knaves in Kendal green came at my back 
and let di'ive at me ; for it was so dark, Hal, that 
thou couldst not see thy hand. 

P. Hen. These lies are like the father that begets 
them ; gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, 
thou clay-brained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, 
thou whoreson, obscene, greasy tallow-ketch, — 

Fal. What ! art thou mad 1 art thou mad 1 is 
not the truth the truth. 

P. Hen. Why, how couldst thou know these men 
in Kendal green, when it was so dark thou couldst 
not see thy hand 1 come, tell us your reason : what 
sayest thou to this 1 

Poins. Come, your reason, Jack, your reason. 

Fal. What, upon compulsion 1 No ; were I at 
the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I 
would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a 



reason on compulsion ! if reasons were as plenty 
as blackberries, I would give no man a reason 
upon compulsion, I. 

P. Hen. I'll be no longer guilty of this sin. 

Poins. Mark, Jack. 

P. Hen. We two saw you four set on four, and 
you bound them, and were masters of their 
wealth. — Mark now, how a plain tale shall put you 
down. — Then did we two set on you four, and, 
with a word, outfaced you from your prize, and 
have it ; yea, and can show it you here in the 
house. — And, Falstaff, you carried your guts away 
as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for 
mercy, and still ran and roared, as ever I heard 
bull-calf. • What a slave art thou, to hack thy 
sword as thou hast done, and then say, it was in 
fight ! What trick, what device, what starting- 
hole canst thou now find out, to hide thee from 
this open and apparent shame ] 

Poins. Come, let's hear. Jack : what trick hast 
thou now 1 

Fal. By the Lord, I knew ye, as well as he 
that made ye. Why, hear ye, my masters. Was 
it for me to kill the heir-apparent 1 Should I 
turn upon the true prince 1 Why, thou knowest, 
I am as valiant as Hercules ; but beware in- 
stinct : the lion will not touch the true prince. 
Instinct is a great matter, I was a coward on 
instinct. I shall think the better of myself and 
thee, during my life ; I for a valiant lion, and 
thou for a true prince. But, by the Lord, lads, 
I am glad you have the money. - 




THE TIEED JESTER. 

[By William Sawyer.] 



HE West was a tangle of throbbing gold, 

A cloud-skein ravell'd against the 

blue, 

The fresh wind loosen'd it fold from fold, 

And the jewel of Hesper glitter'd 

through. 



Only the scimitar rim of the sun 

Flash'd as it sank in a golden mere. 

And the glory of mountain and plain was one, 
In refluent splendour shining clear. 

in a rosy halo the palace stood. 

Many column 'd and terraced wide ; 

Behind it the glow of the autumn wood, 
And round it the garden rainbow -dyed. 

Within were revel and riotous glee. 

Wine-born laughter and bubble ot song. 

And a reed voice piping shrilly and free, 

A voice out-shrilling the screaming throng. 
2b* 



" A bout with the jester ! " it sang — " a bout ! 

Whose the sword for the peacock feather l 
Have a care, whipster ! Out, sword, out ! 

Down go beauty and brains together ! " 

So for a season the mirth ran high. 

So, till its turbulent force was spent ; 

Then forth stole one 'neath the cooling sky, 
Weary and tottering, worn and bent. 

The jester's garb of orange-and-red, 

Stain'd with revel and wine, he wore ; 

The hood thrown back from the shaven head. 
The face that writhing for laughter bore. 

The wind was rising, the poplars sway'd. 

Athwart the terrace the leaves were blown ; 

" In a motley mocking my own array'd," 
He thought as he dropp'd with a hollow 
moan. 



346 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



" O light of the light of the shining hours ! " 
So in a passionate gust he cried ; 

" Life of me, breath of me ! Flower of flowers ! 
Heart of my heart ! That I had but died ! 

" Oh, to have done it — have fallen dead, 
I, but a dog in her proud esteem — 

One mad snatch at her sweet mouth's red ; 
A rapier thrust — and the rest a dream ! 

" A dozen swords would have run me through ; 
Time would have served me the task to do, 

To shriek ' I love you ! ' with ebbing breath. 

And then? What, then, but the quicker 
death ] 

" Coward ! I dared not die in her scorn, 
Spurn'd of her feet as of all the rest ; 



Love of the fervour of love is born ; 

What if she read it within my breast ? " 

A sudden burst of laughter and song 

Startled the dreamer there where he lay ; 

Silken gallants were crowding along ; 

" Only the jester ! " he heard them say. 

Arrowy words so daintily sped, 

Straight to his shuddering heart they flew, 
The rosy glamour of hope had fled, 

The fool his folly despairing knew. 

The passionate rain and the moaning wind 
Fill'd the night with their own despair ; 

And the sobbing dawn awoke to find 

The jester dead with the dead leaves 
there. 



THE CLERGYMAN'S STORY. 

[TTrom " The Pickwick P.-ipei's," by Charles Dickens.] 




.HEN I first 
settled in 
this village, which is 
now just five-and- 
-- twenty years ago, the 
> most notorious per- 
son among my pa- 
rishioners was a man 
of the name of 
Edmunds, who leased 
a small farm near this 
- spot. He was a mo- 
" rose, savage-hearted, 
bad man ; idle and 
dissolute in his habits ; 
ciuel and ferocious in 
his disposition. Be- 
' yond the few lazy and reck- 
less vagabonds with whom 
he sauntered away his time 
iu the fields, or sotted in the 
ale-house, he had not a single 
friend or acquaintance ; no 
one cared- to speak the man 
-whom many feared and every one detested — and 
Edmunds was shunned by all. 

This man had a wife and one son, who, when I 
first came here, was about twelve years old. Of 
the acuteness of that woman's sufl'erings, of the 
gentle and enduring manner in which she bore 
them, of the agony of solicitude with which she 
reared that boy, no one can form an adequate con- 
ception. Heaven forgive me the supposition, if it 
be an uncharitable one, but I do firmly and in my 



soul believe, that the man systematically tried for 
many years to break her heart ; but she bore it all 
for her child's sake, and, however strange it 
may seem to many, for his father's too ; for, 
brute as he was, and cruelly as he had treated her, 
she had loved him once ; and the recollection of 
what he had been to her awakened feelings of 
forbearance and meekness under suffering in her 
bosom, to which aU God's creatures, but women, 
are strangers. 

They were poor, they could not be otherwise 
when the man pursued such covirses, but the 
woman's unceasing and unwearied exertions, early 
and late, morning, noon, and night, kept them 
above actual want. Those exertions were but 
ill repaid. People who passed the spot in the 
evening — sometimes at a late hour of the night — 
reported that they had heard the moans and sobs 
of a woman in distress, and the sound of blows ; 
and more than once, when it was past midnight, 
the boy knocked softly at the door of a neighbour's 
house, whither he had been sent to escape the 
drunken fury of his unnatural father. 

During the whole of this time, and when the 
poor creature often bore about her marks of ill-usage 
and violence which she could not wholly conceal, she 
was a constant attendant at oiu' little church. 
Regularly every Sunday, morning and afternoon, 
she occupied the same seat Avith the boy at her 
side ; and though they were both poorly dressed — 
much more so than many of their neighbours, who 
were in a lower station — they were always neat 
and clean. Every one had a friendly nod and a 
kind word for " poor Mrs. Edmunds ; " and some- 



THE CLERGYMAN'S STORY. 



347 



times when she stopped to exchange a few words 
with a neighbour at the conclusion of the service, 
in the little row of elm-trees which leads to the 
church-porch, or lingered behind to gaze with a 
mother's pride and fondness upon her healthy 
boy, as he sported before her with some little 
companions, her care-worn face would lighten up 
with an expression of heartfelt gratitude ; and she 
would look, if not cheerful and happy, at least 
tranquil and contented. 

Five or six years passed ; the boy had become a 
robust and well-grown youth. The time that had 
strengthened the child's slight frame and knit 
his weak limbs into the strength of manhood had 
bowed his mother's form and enfeebled her steps ; 
but the arm that should have supported her was no 
longer locked in hers ; the face that should have 
cheered her nomore looked uponher own. Sheoccu- 
pied her old seat, but there was a vacant one beside 
her. The Bible was kept as carefully as ever, tlie 
places were found and folded down as they used to 
be, but there was no one to read it with her ; and the 
tears fell thick and fast upon the book, and blotted 
the words from her eyes. Neighbours were as kind as 
they were wont to be of old, but she shunned their 
greetings with averted head. There was no lingering 
among the old elm-trees now, no cheering antici- 
pation of happiness yet in store. The desolate 
woman drew her bonnet closer over her face, and 
walked hurriedly away. 

Shall I teU you that the young man, wdio, look- 
ing back to the earliest of his childhood's days to 
which memory and consciousness extended, and 
carrying his recollection clown to that .moment, 
could remember nothing which was not in some 
way connected with a long series of voluntary 
privations suffered by his mother for his sake, with 
ill-usage, and insult, and violence, and aU endured 
for him ; shall I tell you that he, with a reckless 
disregard of her breaking heart, and a sullen 
wilful forgetfulness for all she had done and 
borne for him, had linked himself with depraved 
and abandoned men, and was madly pursuing a 
headlong career-, Avhich must bring death to him 
and shame to her 1 Alas for human nature ! You 
have' anticipated it long since. 

The measure of the unhappy woman's misery 
and misfortune was about to be completed. 
Numerous offences had been committed in the 
neighbourhood ; the perpetrators remained undis- 
covered, and their boldness increased. A robbery 
of a daring and aggravated nature occasioned 
a vigilance of pursuit and a strictness of search 
they had not calculated on. Young Edmunds 
was suspected with three companions. He was 
apprehended, committed, tried, condemned — to 
die, 

The wild and piercing shriek from a woman's 
voice, which resounded through the court when 



the solemn sentence was pronounced, rings in my 
ears at this present moment. That cry struck a 
terror to the culprit's heart, which trial, con- 
demnation, the approach of death itself, had failed 
to awaken. The lips which had been compressed 
in dogged sullenness throughout, quivered and 
parted involuntarily ; the face turned ashy pale 
as the cold perspiration broke forth from every 
pore ; the sturdy limbs of the felon trembled, and 
he staggered in the dock. 

In the first transports of her mental anguish 
the suffering mother threw herself upon her knees 
at my feet, and fervently besought the Almighty 
Being, who had hitherto supported her in all her 
troubles, to release her from a world of woe and 
misery, and to spare the life of her only child. A 
burst of grief, and a violent struggle, such as 1 
hope I may never have to witness again, succeeded. 
I knew that her heart was breaking from that 
hour ; but I never once heard complaint or mur- 
mur escape her lips. 

It was a piteous spectacle to see that woman in 
the prison-yard from day to day, eagerly and 
fervently attempting by affection and entreaty, to 
soften the hard heart of her obdurate son. It was 
in vain. He remained moody, obstinate, and 
unmoved. Not even the unlooked for commuta- 
tion of his sentence to transportation for fourteen 
years softened for an instant the sullen hardihood 
of his demeanour. 

But the spirit of resignation and endurance that 
had so long upheld her was unable to contend 
against bodily weakness and infirmity. She fell 
sick. She dragged her tottering limbs from the 
bed to visit her son once more, but her strength 
failed her, and she sank powerless on the ground. 

And now, the boasted coldnesss and iudilTerence 
of the young man were tested indeed ; and the 
retribution that fell heavily upon him nearly drove 
him mad. A day passed away and his mother was 
not there ; another flew by, and she came not near 
him ; a third evening arrived, and yet he had not 
seen her ; and in four-and-twenty hours he was to 
be separated from her — perhaps for ever. 

I bore the mother's forgiveness and blessing to 
her son in prison ; and I carried his solemn assur- 
ance of repentance, and his fervent supplication 
for pardon, to her sick-bed. I heard with pity 
and compassion, the repentant man devise a 
thousand little plans for her comfort and support, 
when he returned ; but I knew that many months 
before he could reach his place of destination his 
mother would be no longer of this world. 

He was removed by night. A few weeks after- 
wards the poor woman's soul took its flight, I con- 
fidently hope and solemnly believe, to a place of 
eternal happiness and rest. I performed the 
burial-service over her remains. She lies in our 
little churchyard. There is no stone at her grave's 



348 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



head. Her sorrows were known to man ; her 
"virtues to God. 

It had been arranged previously to the convict's 
departure that he should write to his mother 
as soon as he could obtain permission, and that 



distance up the country on his arrival at the 
settlement ; and to this circumstance, perhaps, may 
be attributed the fact, that, though several letters 
were dispatched, none of them ever reached my 
hands. 




lis THE Prison Yard. (Drawn hy J. E. Christie.) 



the letter should be addressed to me. The father had 
positively refused to see his son from the moment 
of his apprehension ; and it was a matter of indif- 
ference to him whether he lived or died. Many years 
passed over without any intelligence of him ; and 
when more than half his term of transportation had 
expired, and I had received no letter, I concluded 
him to be dead, as, indeed, I almost hoped he 
might be. 
Edmunds, however, had been sent a considerable 



On a fine Sunday evening, in the month of 
August, John Edmunds set foot in the village he 
had left with shame and disgrace seventeen years 
before. His nearest way lay through the church- 
yard. The man's heart swelled as he crossed the 
stile. The tall old elms, through whose branches 
the declining sun cast here and there a rich ray of 
light upon the shady path, awakened the associ- 
ations of his earliest days. He pictured himself 
as he was then, clinging to his mother's hand, and 



THE CLERGYMAN'S STORY. 



349 



■walking peacefully to church. He remembered 
how he used to look up into her pale face ; and 
how her eyes would sometimes fill with tears as she 
gazed upon his features — tears which fell hot upon 
his forehead as she stooped tokiss him, and made him 
■weep too, although he little knew then what bitter 
tears hers were. He thought how often he had run 
merrily down that path with some childish play- 
fellow, looking back ever and again, to catch his 
mother's smile, or hear her gentle voice ; and then 
a veil seemed lifted from his memory, and words 
of kindness unrequited, and warnings despised, 
and promises broken, thronged upon his recollec- 
tion till his heart failed him, and he could bear it 
no longer. 

He entered the church. The evening service 
was concluded, and the congregation had dispersed, 
but it was not yet closed. His steps echoed 
through the low building with a hollow sound, 
and he almost feared to be alone, it was so still 
and quiet. He looked round him. Nothing was 
changed. 

An old man entered the porch just as he reached 
it. Edmunds started back, for he knew him well ; 
many a time he had watched him digging graves 
in the churcliyard. What would he say to the 
returned convict ? 

The old man raised his eyes to the stranger's 
face, bade him " Good evening," and walked slowly 
on. He had forgotten him. 

Tiie last soft light of the setting sun had fallen 
on the earth, casting a rich glow on the yellow 
corn -sheaves, and leng-thening the shadows of the 
orchard trees, as he stood before the old house — 
the home of his infancy — to which his heart had 
yearned with an intensity of affection not to be 
described, through longand wearyyears of captivity 
and sorrow. The paling was low, though he well- 
remembered the time when it had seemed a high 
wall to him : and he looked over into the old 
garden. There were more seeds and gayer flowers 
than there used to be, but there were the old trees 
still — the very tree under which he had lain a 
thousand times when tired of playing in the sun, 
and felt the soft mild sleep of happy boyhood steal 
gently upon him. There were voices within the 
house. He listened, but they fell strangely upon 
his ear ; he knew them not. They were merry 
too ; and he well knew that his poor old mother 
could not be cheerful and he away. The door 
opened, and a group of little children, bounded 
out, shouting and romping. The father, with a 
little boy in his arms, appeared at the door, and 
they crowded round him, clapping their tiny hands, 
and dragging him out to join their joyous sports. 
The convict thought on the many times he had 
shrunk from his father's sight in that very place. 
He remembered how often he had buried his 
trembling head beneath the bed-clothes, and heard 



the harsh word, and the hard stripe, and his 
mother's wailing ; and though the man sobbed 
aloud with agony of mind as he left the spot, his 
fist was clenched, and his teeth were set, in fierce 
and deadly passion. 

And such was the return to which he had looked 
through the weary perspective of many years, and 
for which he had undergone so much suffering ! 
No face of welcome, no look of forgiveness, no 
house to receive, no hand to help him — and this, 
too, in the old village. What was his loneliness in 
the wild thick woods, where man was never seen, 
to this ! 

He felt that in the distant land of his bondage 
and infamy, he had thought of his native place as 
it was when he left it ; not as it would be, when 
he returned. The sad reality struck coldly at his 
heart, and his spirits sank within him. He had 
not courage to make inquiries, or to present him- 
self to the only person who was likely to receive 
him with kindness and compassion. He walked 
slowly on ; and shunning the roadside like a 
guilty man, turned into a meadow he well remem- 
bered ; and, covering his face with his hands, threw 
himself upon the grass, where a man was already 
lying beside him ; his workhouse garments rustled 
as he turned round to steal a look at the new- 
comer ; and Edmunds raised his head. 

The old man was ghastly pale. He shuddered, 
and tottered to his feet. Edmunds sprang to his. 
He stepped back a pace or two. Edmunds 
advanced. 

" Let me hear you speak," said the convict in a 
thick broken voice. 

" Stand off ! " cried the old man, with an oath. 
The convict drew closer. 

" Stand off ! " shrieked the old man. Furious 
with terror he raised his stick, and struck 
Edmunds a heavy blow across the face. 

" Father — devil ! " murmured the convict be- 
tween his set teeth. He rushed wildly forward, and 
clenched the old man by the throat ; but he was 
his father, and his arm fell powerless by his side. 

The old man uttered a loud yell which rang 
through the lonely fields like the howl of an evi' 
spirit. His face turned black : the gore rushed 
from his mouth and nose, and dyed the grass 
a deep dark red, as he staggered and fell, rupturing 
a blood-vessel : and he was a dead man before 
his son could raise him. 

In that corner of the churchyard — in that corner 
of the churchyard of which I have before spoken — 
there lies buried a man who was in my employ- 
ment for three years after this event : and who was 
truly contrite, penitent, and humbled, if ever man 
was. No one save myself knew in that ]nan's life- 
time who he was, or whence he came : it was 
John Edmunds, the returned convict. 



350 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 




WHERE all is so good it becomes a hard task to select from a writer who is essentially the poet 
of the home circle, the sweet singer whose lays make him ever welcome at the fireside. 
An Englishman in thought and tongue, an American by birth and nationality, Henry Wadsworth 
Longfellow is a poet of whom all English-speaking peoples may be proud, and Great Britain and 
the United States may both claim a share in his thoughts. 

What can be sweeter, more tuneful to the ear, or more soothing to the tired frame than " The 
Day is Done " ? A poem that appeals to the sympathies of every nature, and seems in the time 
of care to bring calm and rest and a dreamy sensation of repose that is ever soothing to the 
weary mind. 

THE DAY IS DONE. 



The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the "wings of Night, 

As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist. 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, 

That my soul cannot resist : 

A feeling of sadness and longing. 

That is not akin to pain. 
And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles the rain. 

Come, read to me some poem, 
Some simple and heartfelt lay. 

That shall soothe this restless feeling. 
And banish the thoughts of day. 

Not from the grand old masters. 
Not from the bards sublime, 

"Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of Time. 

For, like strains of martial music. 
Their mighty thoughts suggest 



Life's endless toil and endeavour ; 
And to-night I long for rest. 

Read from some humbler poet. 

Whose songs gushed from his heart. 

As showers from the clouds of summer, 
Or tears from the eyelids start ; 

A\Tio, through long days of labour. 

And nights devoid of ease. 
Still heard in his soul the music 

Of wonderful melodies. 

Such songs have power to quiet 

The restless pulse of care. 
And come like the benediction 

That follows after prayer. 

Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice, 
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 

The beauty of thy voice. 

And the night shall be filled with music, 
And the cares that infest the day 

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away. 



To whom would you go for a poem at such a time as he has described 1 Wliere would you find 
the one " whose songs gushed from his heart 1 " The answer seems to come, naturally, in Long- 



THE LAYS OF LONGFELLOW. 



351 



fellow. For where at such a time do we find one who will read and " lend to the rhyme of the 
poet the beauty of the voice 1 " 

To pass on to a very different poem, few pictures could be so solemn and yet so sweet as the 
■*' Burial of the Minnisink." 



On sunny slope and beechen swell, 
The shadowed light of evening fell ; 
And, where the maj^le's leaf was brown, 
With soft and silent lapse came down, 
The glory, that the wood receives, 
At sunset, in its brazen leaves. 



A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin 
Covered the warrior, and witiiin 
Its heavy folds tlie weapons, made 
For the hard toils of war, were laid ; 
The cuirass, woven of i>laiteil reeds. 
And the broad belt of shells and beads 




The Burial of the Minnisink. (Drawn by J. C. Bollman.) 



^Ar upward in the meUow li^ht 
Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, 
Around a far uplifted cone. 
In the warm blush of evening shone ; 
An image of the silver lakes, 
By which the Indian's soul awakes. 

But soon a funeral hymn was heard 
AVhere the soft breath of eveniug stnred 
The tall, grey forest ; and a band 
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, 
Came winding down beside the wave, 
To lay the red chief in his grave. 

They sang, that by his native bowers 
He stood, in the last moon of flowers. 
And thirty snows had not yet shed 
Their glory on the warrior's head ; 
But, as the summer fruit decays, 
So died he in those naked days. 



Before, a dark-haired virgin train 
Chanted the death dirge of the slain ; 
Behind, the long procession came 
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame. 
With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, 
Leading the war-horse of their chief. 

Stripped of his proud and martial dress, 
Uncurbed, unreined, and liderless, 
With darting eye, and nostril spread, 
And heavy and impatient tread. 
He came ; and oft that eye so proud 
Asked for his rider in the crowd. 

They buried the dark chief ; they freed 
Beside the grave his battle steed ; 
And swift an arrow cleaved its way 
To liis stern heart ! One piercing neigh 
Arose, and, on the dead man's plain. 
The rider grasps Ms steed again. 



However English in thought and word Longfellow might be, none but an American of the 
Americans could have written that graceful poem. No man but one who knew and who had studied 



352 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



the Indian in his home and ways, who was well acquainted with his customs, could have pictured 
80 graphically that scene with its weird solemnity ending in the tragedy of the death of the steed 
sent to the dead man's plain ready, according to the Indians' common belief, for his master gone before. 
Ever familiar, wedded as it has been to song, and simg in every home, is that sweet old lessoa 
of simplest teaching in its honest purity of thought — " The Village Blacksmith." It is such a. 
moral lay as a mother might be glad to teach the child that hangs about her knee, and thougk 
the little one might fail to catch some of the subtleties of thought that the poet has introduced,, 
there is enough and to spare of the humble story to interest the young as well as the old, and it is 
no vain prophecy to say that the lay of him who " swung his heavy sledge with measured beat and 
slow "' will be sung when generations of men have passed away. 




The Villaoe Blacksjiiih. (Drracii hij W. Small.) 



Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorroAving, 
Onward tlirongli life he goes ; 
Each morning sees some task begin, 



Each evening sees its close ; 
Something attempted, something done. 
Has earned a night's repose. 



What a lover of children must he have been who wrote of the little ones :— 



For what are all our contrivmgs, 
And the wisdom of our books, 

When compared with your caresses, 
And the gladness of your looks ? 



Ye are better than all the ballads 
That ever were sung or said ; 

For ye are living poems, 
And all the rest are dead. 



What sweet pathos, too, there is in the opening verses of " Weariness " 



O little feet ! that such long years 

Must wander on through hopes and fears, 

Must ache and bleed beneath your load ; 
I, nearer to the wayside inn 
"Where toil shall cease and rest begin, 

Am weary, thinking of your road ! 



O little hands ! that, weak or strong. 
Have still to serve or rule so long, 

Have still so long to give or ask ; 
I, who so much with book and pen 
Have toiled among my fellow-rnen. 

Am weary, thinking of your task. 



THE LAYS OF LONGFELLOW. 



353. 



And who that lias ever read can well forget the sweet words of 

THE CHILDEEN'S HOUR. 



Between the dark and the daylight, 
When the night is beginning to lower, 

Comes a pause in the day's occupations, 
That Ls known as the Cliildren's Hour. 

I hear in the chamber above me 
The patter of little feet. 



They are plotting and planning together 
To take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway, 
A sudden raid from the hall ! 

By three doors left unguarded 
They enter my castle wall ! 




King Christian. {Drawn by H. M. Paget.) 



Tlie sound of a door that is opened, 
And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamplight, 
Descending the broad hall stair, 

Grave Alice, and laughing AUegra, 
And Edith with golden hair. 

A whisper, and then a silence : 
Yet I know by their merry eye? 

2s* 



They climb up into my turret 

O'er the arms and back of my chair ; 

If I tiy to escape they surround me ; 
They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 
Their arms about me entwine. 

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen, 
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine ! 



354 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



Do you think, blue-eyed banditti, 


But put you down into the dungeon 


Because you have scaled the wall, 


In the round-tower of my heart. 


Such an old moustache as I am 




Is not a match for you aU ! 


And there wUl I keep you forever, 




Yes, forever and a day. 


I have you fast in my fortress, 


Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 


And will not let you depart, 


And moulder iu dust away ! 



From the calm and peace of home we are suddenly transported to the din of battle when 
■\ve read such a stirring national song as 



KING CHRISTIAN. 



King Christian stood by the lofty mast 

In mist and smoke ; 
His sword was hammering so fast, 
Through Gothic helm and brain it passed ; 
Then sank each hostile hulk and mast. 

In mist and smoke. 
" Fly ! " shouted they, " fly, he who can ! 
AVho braves of Denmark's Christian 
The stroke ? " 

Nils .Juel gave heed to the tempest's roar, 

Now is tlie hour ! 
He hoisted his blood-red flag once more. 
And smote upon tlie foe full sore, 
And shouted loud, through the tempest's roar, 

'* Now is the houi" ! " 
" Fly ! " shouted they, "for shelter fly ! 
Of Denmark's Juel who can defy 

The power ? " 



North Sea ! a glimpse of "Wessel rent 

Thy mui-ky sky ! 
Then cliampions to tliine arms were sent ; 
Terror and Death glared where lie went ; 
From the waves was heard a wail, that rent 

Thy murky sky ! 
From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiol', 
Let each to Heaven commend his soul. 

And fly ! 

Path of the Dane to fame and might ! 

Dark-rolling wave ! 
Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight. 
Goes to meet danger with despite. 
Proudly as thou the tempest's migli t. 

Dark-rolling wave ! 
And amid pleasures and alarms. 
And war and victory, be thine arms 

My grave ! 



With one more short extract we will conclude, taking to ourselves its sweet lesson of isatience 
and resignation to teach us thankfulness and content. 



THE RAINY DAY. 



The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall. 
But at every gust the dead leaves fall. 
And the day is dark and dreary. 

]\Iy life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 



My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, 
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast. 
And the days are dark and dreary. 

Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; 
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; 
Thy fate is the common fate of all. 
Into each life some rain miist fall, 

Some days must be dark and dreary. 













REBECCA AND IVANHOE. 



" THE SIEGE OF TOIiQUILSTO^fE" {p. 355). 



THE SIEGE OF TORQUILSTONE. 



300 



THE SIEGE OF TORQUILSTONE. 

[From " Ivrmhoe." By Sir Walter Scott.] 




[ EBECCA hastened to give Ivanhoe 
■\vliat information she could ; but it 
amounted only to this, that the 
Templar Bois-Guilbert, and the Baron 
Front-de-Boeuf, were commanders 
^\•ithiu the castle; that it was be- 
^.. leaguered from without, but by whom she 
«A^ knew not. She added, that there was a 
Christian priest within the castle who might be 
possessed of more information. 

" A Chi'istian priest," said the knight, joyfully ; 
" fetch him hither, Rebecca, if thou canst — say a 
sick man desires his ghostly counsel — say what 
thou vnlt, but bring him — something I must do 
or attemj)t, but how can I determine until I know 
how matters stand without ? " 

Rebecca, in compliance with the wishes of 
Ivanhoe, made an attempt to bring Cedric into 
the wounded knight's chamber, which was defeated 
by the interference of Urf ried, who had been also 
on the watch to intercept the supposed monk. 
Rebecca retired to communicate to Ivanhoe the 
failm'e of her errand. 

Thej-- had not much leLsure to regret the failure 
of this source of intelligence, or to contrive by 
what means it might be supplied ; for the noise 
■^^dthin the castle, occasioned by the defensive 
preparations which had been considerable for some 
time, now increased into tenfold bu.stle and 
clamour. The heavy yet hasty step of the men- 
at-arms traversed the battlements or resounded on 
the narrow and wdnding passages and stairs which 
led to the various bartizans and points of defence. 
The voices of the knights were heard animating 
their followers or directing means of defence, 
while their commands were often drowned in the 
clashing of armour, or the clamorous shouts of 
those whom they addressed. Tremendous as these 
sounds were, and yet more terrible from the awful 
event which they presaged, there was a sublimity 
mixed with them which Rebecca's high-toned mind 
could feel even in that moment of terror. Her 
eye kindled, although the blood fled from her 
cheeks ; and there was a strong mixture of fear 
and of a thrilling sense of the sublime, as she 
repeated, half- whispering to herself, half -speaking 
to her companion, the sacred text : " The quiver 
rattleth — the glittering spear and the shield — the 
noise of the captains ancl the shouting." 

But Ivanhoe was like the war-horse of that 
sublime passage, glowing with impatience at his 
inactivity, and with his ardent desire to mingle in 
the affray of which these sounds were the intro- 
duction. " If I could but drag myself," he said. 



" to yonder window, that I might see how this 
brave game is like to go — if I had but bow to 
shoot a shaft, or battle-axe to strike were it but a 
single blow for our deliverance ! — It is in vain — it 
is in vain — I am alike nerveless and weaponless." 

"Fret not thyself, noble knight," answered 
Rebecca ; " the sounds have ceased of a sudden — 
it may be they join not battle." 

" Thou knowest nought of it," said Wilfrid, im- 
patiently ; " this dead pause only shows that the 
men are at their posts on the walls, and expecting 
an instant attack ; what we have heard was but 
the distant muttering of the storm — it will burst 
anon in all its fury. — Could I but reach yonder 
window ! " 

" Thou wilt but injure thyself by the attempt, 
noble knight," replied his attendant. Observing- 
his extreme solicitude, she firmly added, " I myself 
■mR stand at the lattice, and describe to you as I 
can what passes without." 

" You must not — you shall not ! " exclaimed 
Ivanhoe ; " each lattice, each aperture, will be 
soon a mark for the archers ; some random 
shaft " 

" It shall be welcome," murmured Rebecca, as 
with firm pace she ascended two or three steps 
which led to the window of which they spoke. 

" Rebecca, dear Rebecca ! " exclaimed Ivanhoe, 
" this is no maiden's pastime — do not expose thy- 
self to wounds and death,, and render me for ever 
miserable for having given the occasion ; at least, 
cover thyself with yonder ancient buckler, and 
show as httle of your person at the lattice as may 
be." 

Follo^ving with wonderful promptitude the 
directions of Ivanhoe, and availing herseK of the 
protection of the large ancient shield, which she 
placed against the lower part of the window, 
Rebecca, with tolerable security to herself, could 
•flatness part of what was passing without the 
castle, and report to Ivanhoe the preparations 
which the assailants were making for the storm. 
Indeed the situation which she thus obtained was 
peculiarly favourable for this purpose, because, 
being placed on an angle of the main building, 
Rebecca could not only see what passed beyond 
the precincts of the castle, but also commanded a 
view of the outwork likely to be the first object of 
the meditated assault. It was an exterior fortifi- 
cation of no gxeat height or strength, intended to 
protect the postern-gate through which Cedric had 
been recently dismissed by Front-de-Boeuf. The 
castle moat divided this species of barbican from 
the rest of the fortress, so that, in case of its being- 



356 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



1;aken, it was easy to cut off the corumunication 
with the main building, by withdrawing the tem- 
porary bridge. In the outwork was a sally-port 
corresponding to the postern of the castle, and the 
whole was surroimded by a strong palisade. 
Rebecca could observe, from the number of men 
placed for the defence of this post, that the be- 
sieged entertained apprehensions for its safety ; 
and from the mirstering of the assailants in a direc- 
tion nearly opposite to the outwork, it seemed no 
less plain that it had been selected as a vulnerable 
point of attack. 

These appearances she hastily communicated to 
Ivanhoe, and added, " The skirts of the wood seem 
lined with archers, although only a few are 
advanced from its dark shadow." 

" Under what banner 1 " asked Ivanhoe. 

" Under no ensign of war which I can observe," 
answered Rebecca. 

" A singular novelty," answered the knight, " to 
advance to storm such a castle without pennon or 
banner displayed. — Seest thou who they be that 
act as leaders ? " 

" A knight clad in sable armour is the most con- 
spicuous," said the Jewess ; " he alone is armed 
from head to heel, and seems to assume the direc- 
tion of all around him." 

" What device does he bear on his shield 1 " 
replied Ivanhoe. 

" Something resembling a bar of iron, and a pad- 
lock painted blue on the black shield." 

" A fetterlock and shackle-bolt azure," said Ivan- 
Iioe ; " I know not who may bear the device, but 
well I ween it might now be mine own. Canst 
thou not see the motto 1 " 

" Scarce the device itself at this distance," 
replied Rebecca ; " but when the sun glances fair 
upon his shield, it shows as I tell you." 

" Seem there no other leaders 1 " exclaimed the 
anxious inquirer. 

" None of mark and distinction that I can be- 
hold from this station," said Rebecca, " but doubt- 
less the other side of the castle is also assailed. 
They seem even now preparing to advance. — God 
of Zion, protect us ! — What a dreadful sight ! — 
Those who advance first bear huge shields, and 
defences made of plank ; the others foUow, bend- 
ing their bows as they come on. — They raise their 
bows ! — God of Moses, forgive the creatures thou 
Tiast made ! " 

Her description was here suddenly interrupted 
"by the signal for assault, which was given by the 
blast of a shrill bugle, and at once answered by a 
flourish of the Norman trumpets from the battle- 
ments, which, mingled with the deep and hollow 
clang of the nakers (a species of kettle-drum), 
retorted in notes of defiance the challenge of the 
enemy. The shouts of both parties augmented the 
fearful din, the assailants crying, " Saint George for 



merry England ! " and the Normans answering them 
with cries of " Un avant De Bracy ! — Beau-seant ! 
Beau-seant ! — Front-de-Boeuf a la rescousse J" ac- 
cording to the war-cries of their different com- 
manders. 

It was not, however, by clamour that the contest 
was to be decided, and the desperate efforts of the 
assailants were met by an equally vigorous defence 
on the part of the besieged. The archers, trained 
by their woodland pastimes to the most effective 
use of the long-bow, shot, to use the appropriate 
phrase of the time, so " wholly together," that no 
point at which a defender could show the least 
part of his person escaped their cloth-yard shafts. 
By this heavy discharge, which continued as thick 
and sharp as hail, while, notwithstanding, every 
arrow had its individual aim, and flew by scores 
together against each embrasm-e and opening in 
the parapets, as well as at every window where a 
defender either occasionally had post or might be 
suspected to be stationed, — by this sustained dis- 
charge, two or three of the garrison were slain, and 
several others wounded. But, confident in their 
armour of proof, and in the cover which their 
.situation afforded, the followers of Front-de-Bceuf, 
and his allies, showed an obstinacy in defence 
proportioned to the fury of the attack, and replied 
with the discharge of their large cross-bows, as 
well as with their long-bows, slings, and other 
missile weapons, to the close and continued shower 
of arrows ; and, as the assailants were necessarily 
but indifferently protected, did considerably more 
damage than they received at their hand. The 
whizzing of shafts and of missiles, on both sides, 
was only interrupted by the shouts which arose 
when either side inflicted or sustained some notable 
loss. 

" And I must lie here like a bed-ridden monk," 
exclaimed Ivanhoe, " while the game that gives me 
freedom or death is played out by the hand of 
others ! — Look from the window once again, kind 
maiden, but beware that you are not marked by 
the archers beneath — Look out once more, and tell 
me if they yet advance to the storm." 

With patient courage, strengthened by the 
interval which she had employed in mental devo- 
tion, Rebecca again took post at the lattice, shelter- 
ing herself, however, so as not to be visible from 
beneath. 

" What dost thou see, Rebecca? " again demanded 
the wounded knight. 

" Nothing but the cloud of arrows, fljang so thick 
as to dazzle mine eyes, and to hide the bowmen 
who shoot them." 

" That cannot endure," said Ivanhoe ; " if they 
press not right on to carry the castle by pure force 
of arms, the archery may avail but little against 
stone walls and bulwarks. Look for the knight 
of the fetterlock, fair Rebecca, and see how he 



THE SIEGE OF TORQUILSTONE. 



357 



■bears himself; for as tlie leader is, so will his 
followers be." 

" I see him not," said Rebecca. 

" Foul craven ! " exclaimed Ivanhoe ; " does he 
blench from the helm when the wind blows 
highest r' 

" He blenches not ! he blenches not ! " said 
Rebecca ; " I see him now ; he leads a body of 



" Look forth again, Rebecca," said Ivanhoe, mis- 
taking the cause of her retiring ; " the archery must 
in some degree have ceased, since they are now 
fighting hand to hand. Look again, there is now 
less danger." 

Rebecca again looked forth, and almost im- 
mediately exclaimed, " Holy prophets of the law ! 
Front-de-Boeuf and the Black Knight fight hand 




The Siege. {Brawn by J. Nash.) 



men close under the outer barrier of the barbican. — 
They puU down the piles and palisades ; they hew 
■ down the barriers with axes— his high black plume 
floats abroad over the throng, like a raven over the 
field of the slain. — They have made a breach in 
the barriers — they rush in — they are thrust back ! 
— Front-de-Boeuf heads the defenders ; I see his 
gigantic form above the press. They throng again 
to the breach, and the pass is disputed hand to 
hand and man to man. God of Jacob ! it is the 
meeting of two fierce tides — the conflict of two 
oceans moved by adverse winds." 

She turned her head from the lattice, as if un- 
;able longer to endure a sight so terrible. 



to hand on the breach, amid the roar of their 
followers, who watch the progress of the strife — 
Heaven strike with the cause of the oppressed and 
of the captive ! " She then uttered a loud shriek, 
and exclaimed, " He is down ! — he is down ! " 

" Who is down 1 " cried Ivanhoe ; " for our dear 
Lady's sake, tell me which has fallen 1 " 

" The Black Knight," answered Rebecca, faintly ; 
then instantly again shouted with joyful eagerness 
— " But no — -but no ! — the name of the Lord of 
hosts be blessed ! — he is on foot again, and fights 
as if there were twenty men's strength in his 
single arm. — His sword is broken — he snatches an 
axe from a yeoman — he presses Front-de-Boeuf 



358 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



with blow on blow — the giant stoops and totters 
like an oak under the steel of the woodman — he 
falls — he falls !" 

" Front-de-Boeuf 1 " exclaimed Ivanhoe. 

" Front-de-Boeuf," answered the Jewess ; " his 
men rush to the rescue ; headed by the haughty 
Templar — their united force compels the champion 
to pause— they drag Front-de-Boeuf within the 
walls." 

"The assailants have won the barriers, have 
they not 1 " said Ivanhoe. 

"They have — they have — and they press the 
besieged hard upon the outer wall ; some plant 
ladders, some swarm like bees, and endeavour to 
ascend upon the shoulders of each other— down go 
stones, beams, and trunks of trees upon their 
heads, and as fast as they bear the Avounded to the 
rear fresh men supply their places in the assault. 
Great God ! hast thou given men thine own image, 
that it should be thus cruelly defaced by the hands 
of their brethren ! " 

" Think not of that," replied Ivanhoe ; this is 
no time for such thoughts. — Who yield 1 — who 
push their way 1 " 

" The ladders are thrown down,'" replied Rebecca, 
shuddering ; " the soldiers lie grovelling under 
them like crushed reptiles — the besieged have the 
better." 



" St. George strike for us," said the knight, " do 
the false yoemen give way 1 " 

" No ! " exclaimed Rebecca, " they bear themsel ves- 
right yeomanly — the Black Knight approaches the 
postern wth his huge axe — the thundering blows 
which he deals, you may hear them above all the 
din and shouts of the battle — stones and beams are 
hurled down on the bold champion — he regards 
them no more than if they were thistle-down or- 
feathers." 

" By St. John of Acre," said Ivanhoe, raising him- 
self joyfully on his couch, "methought there was but 
one man in England that might do such a deed." 

" The postern gate shakes," continued Rebecca ; 
"it crashes — it Ls splintered by his blows — they 
rush in — the outwork is won — they hurl the 
defenders from the battlements — they throw them 
into the moat — O men, if ye be indeed men,, 
spare them that can resist no longer ! " 

"The bridge — the bridge wliich communicates 
with the castle — have they won that pass?" ex- 
claimed Ivanhoe. 

" No," replied Rebecca ; " the Templar has 
destroyed the plank on which they crossed — few 
of the defenders escaped with him into the castle 
— the shrielis and cries which you hear tell the 
fate of the others. Alas ! I see it is still more- 
difficult to look upon victory than upon battle." 




NOBLE POVERTY. 

[By Latjbekce Sterne.] 




town 



^EFORE I had got half-way down the 
street, I changed my mind. " As 
I am at Versailles," thought I, "I 
might as well take a view of the 
I pulled the cord, and ordered the 
coachman to drive round some of the principal 
streets. " I suppose the town is not very large?'' 
said I. The coachman begged pardon for setting 
me right, and told me it was very superb, and that 
numbers of the first dukes, and marquises, and 

counts had hotels : the Count de B , of whom 

the bookseller at the Quai de Conti had spoke so 



handsomely the night before, came instantly into 
my mind. " And why should I not go," thought 

I, " to the Count de B , who has so high an. 

idea of English books and Englishmen, and tell 
him my story 1" So I seeing a man standing with 
a basket on the other side of the street, as if he 
had something to sell, I bid La Fleur go up to- 
him and inquire for the count's hotel. 

La Fleur returned a little pale ; and told me it 
was a chevalier de St. Louis selling pdtes. "It is 
impossible, La Fleur ! " said I. La Fleur could no- 
more account for the phenomenon than myself ; but 



NOBLE POVERTY. 



359 



f)ersisted in lii.3 story : lie liad seen tlie croix set in 
:gold, witli its red ribbon, he said, tied to his 
button-hole ; and had looked into the basket, 
:and had seen the pdies which the chevalier was 
selling. 

Such a reverse in a man's life awakens a better 
principle than curiosity : I got out of the remise, 
«nd went towards him. 

He was begirt with a clean linen apron, which 
fell below his knees, and with a sort of a bib that 
^went half-way up his breast ; upon the top of this, 
but a little below the hem, hung his croix. His 
basket of little ]Mtes was covered over with a white 
■damask napkin : another of the same kind was 
■spread at the bottom, and there was a look of 
firoprete and neatness throughout, that one might 
have bought his^a^M of him as much from appetite 
as sentiment. 

He made an offer of them to neither, but stood 
still with them at the corner of an hotel, for those 
to buy who chose it, without solicitation. 

He was about forty-eight — of a sedate look, 
something approaching to gravity. I did not 
wonder. I went up rather to the basket than him, 
and having lifted up the napkin and taken one of 
his jy&t'es in my hand, I begged he would explain 
the appearance which affected me. 

He told me in a few words that the best part 
■of his life had passed in the service, in which, after 
spending a small patrimony, he had obtained a 
<;ompany, and the croix with it ; but at the con- 
clusion of the last peace, his regiment being re- 
formed, and the whole corps, with those of some 
■other regiments, left without provision, he found 
himself in a large world without friends, without 
a livre — " and indeed," said he, " without anything 
1 dt this " — pointing as he said it to his croix. 
The poor chevalier won my pity, and he finished 
the scene mth winning my esteem too. 

The king, he said, was the most generous of 
princes ; but his generosity could neither relieve 
nor reward every one, and it was only his 
misfortune to be amongst the number. He had a 
little wife, he said, whom he loved, who did the 
patisserie; and added, he felt no dishonour in 
defending her and himself from want in this way, 
unless Pro-vidence had offered him a better. 

It would be wicked to withhold a jjleasure from 
the good, in passing over what happened to this 
poor chevalier of St. Louis about nine months 
after. 

It seems he usually took his stand near the iron 
gates which led up to the palace ; and as his croix 
had caught the eye of numbers, numbers had made 
the same inquiry which I had done. He told 
them the same story, and always with so much 
modesty and good sense, that it had reached at last 
the king's ears ; who learning the chevalier had 
been a gallant officer, and respected by the whole 



regiment, broke up his little trade by a pension of 
fifteen hundred livres a-year. 

As I have told this to please the reader, I beg he 
will allow rne to relate another, to please myself : 
the two stories reflect light upon each other, and 
'tis a pity they .should be parted. 

I stop not to tell the causes which gradually 

brought the house of D'E in Brittany into 

decay. The Marquis d'E — - had fought up 
against his condition with great firmness, wishing 
to preserve and still show to the world some little 
fragments of what his ancestors had been — their in- 
discretions had put it out of his power. There was 
enough left for the little exigencies of obscurity : 
but he had two boys who looked up to him for 
light — he thought they deserved it. He had tried 
his sword — it could not open the way — the mount- 
ing was too expensive — and simple economy 
was not a match for it : there was no resource 
but commerce. 

In any other province in France save Brittany, 
this was smiting the root for ever of the little tree 
his pride and affection wished to see re-blossom. 
But in Brittany, there being a provision for this, he 
availed himself of it ; and taking an occasion when 
the states were assembled at Rennes, the marquis, 
attended with his two boys, entered the court ; and 
having pleaded the right of an ancient law of the 
duchy, which, though seldom claimed, he said, was 
no less in force, he took his sword from his side : 
" Here," said he, " take it ; and be trusty g-uardians 
of it tm better times put me in condition to 
reclaim it." 

The president accepted the marquis's sword — he 
stayed a few minutes to see it deposited in 
the archives of his house, and departed. 

The marquis and his whole family embarked the 
next day for Martinique ; and in about nineteen 
or twenty years of successful application to busi- 
ness—with some unlooked-for bequests from dis- 
tant branches of his house — returned home to 
reclaim his nobility and to support it. 

It was an incident of good fortune which wUl 
never happen to any traveller but a sentimental one, 
that I should be at Rennes at the very time of this 
solemn requisition : I call it solemn — it was so to me. 

The marquis entered the court with his whole 
family : he supported his lady— his eldest son 
supported his sister, and his youngest was at the 
other extreme of the line next his mother. He 
put his handkerchief to his face twice. 

There was a dead silence. When the marquis had 
approached within six paces of the tribunal, he gave 
the marchioness to his youngest son, and, advanc- 
ing three steps before his family, he reclaimed his 
sword. His sword was given him, and the moment 
he got it into his hand he drew it almost out of 
the scabbard : 'twas the shining face of a friend he 
had once given up— he looked attentively along it. 



360 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



beginning at the hilt, as if to see whether it was 
the same, when observing a little rust which it had 
contracted near the point, he brought it near 
his eye, and bending his head down over it, I 
think I saw a tear fall upon the place : I could not 
be deceived by what followed. 



" I shall find," said he, "some other way to get it oif."" 

When the marquis had said this, he returned 

his sword into its scabbard, made a bow to the- 

guardian of it ; and, with his wife and daughter 

and his two sons following him, walked out. 

Oh, how I envied him his feelings ! 



MAZEPPA'S PUNISHMENT. 

[By Lord Btbon.] 




RING forth the 

horse ! " — the 

horse was 

brought ; 
In truth he 

was a noble 

steed, 
A Tartar of 

the Ukraine 

breed. 
Who look'd as 

though the 

speed 

thought 
AVere in 

limbs ; 



of 



his 
but 



he was wild. 
Wild as the wild deer, and untaught. 
With spur and bridle undefil'd — 

'Twas but a day he had been caught ; 
And snorting with erected mane, 
And struggling fiercely but in vain. 
In the full foam of wrath and dread 
To me the desert-born was led : 
They bound me on, that menial throng. 
Upon his back with many a thong ; 
Then loosed him with a sudden lash — 
Away ! — away ! — and on we dash ! 
Torrents less rapid and less rash. 

Away ! — away ! — My breath was gone ; 
I saw not where he hurried on : 
•'Twas scarcely yet the break of day, 
And on he foam'd — away ! — away ! 
The last of human sounds which rose, 
As I was darted from my foes, 
Wis the wild shout of savage laughter ; 
W'lich on the wind came roaring after 
A moment from that rabble rout : 
With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head. 
And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane 
Had bound my neck in lieu of rein ; 
And, writhing half my form about, 
Howl'd back my curse ; but midst the tread, 
The thunder of my courser's speed, 



Perchance they did not hear nor heed : 
It vexes me — for I would fain 
Have paid their insult back again. 
I paid it well in after days : 
There is not of that castle gate, 
Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight, 
Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left, 
Nor of its fields a blade of grass. 

Save what grows on a ridge of wall 

Where stood the hearth -stone of the hall p 
And many a time ye there might pass. 
Nor dream that e'er that fortress was : 
I saw its turrets in a blaze, 
Their crackling battlements all cleft. 

And the hot lead pour down like rain 
From off the scorch'd and blackening roof, 
Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. 

They little thought that day of pain. 
When launch'd, as on the lightning's flash. 
They bade me to destruction dash, 

That one day I should come again. 
With twice five thousand horse, to thank 

The Count for his uncourteous ride. 
They play'd me then a bitter prank. 

When with the wild horse for my guide. 
They bound me to his foaming flank ; 
At length I play'd them one as frank^ 
For time at last sets all things even— 

And if we do but watch the hour. 

There never yet was human power 
Which could evade, if unforgiven. 
The patient search and vigil long 
Of him who treasures up a wrong. 
Away, away, my steed and I, 

Upon the pinions of the wind. 

All human dwellings left behind ; 
We sped like meteors through the sky, 
When with its crackling sound the night 
Is chequer'd with the northern light ; 
Town — village — none were on our track. 

But a wild plain of far extent. 
And bounded by a forest black ; 

And, save the scarce seen battlement 
On distant heights of some .stronghold. 
Against the Tartars built of old, 



MAZEPPA'S PUNISHMENT. 



3(51 



No trace of man. The year before 
A Turkish army had march 'd o'er ; 
And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod, 
The verdure fiies the bloody sod : — 
The sky was dull, and dim, and grey, 
And a low breeze crept moaning by^ — 
I could have answer'd with a sigh — 
But fast we fled away, away — 
And I could neither sigh nor pray ; 
And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain 
Upon the courser's bristling mane ; 



We near'd the wild wood — 'twas so wide, 

I saw no bounds on either side ; 

'Twas studded with old sturdy trees. 

That bent not to the roughest breeze 

Which howls down from Siberia's waste, • 

And strips the forest in its haste, — 

But these were few and far between, 

Set thick with shrubs more young and green. 

Luxuriant with their annual leaves, 

Ere strown by those autumnal eves 

That nip the forest's foliage dead, 




Mazeppa's Eide. (Ih-avin by J, Kash.) 



But snorting still with rage and fear, 
He flew upon his far career : 
At times I almost thought, indeed. 
He must have slacken'd in his speed ; 
But no — my bound and slender frame 

Was nothing to his angry might. 
And merely like a spur became ; 
Each motion which I made to free 
My swollen limbs from agony 

Increas'd his fury and affright ; 
I tried my voice, — 'twas faint and low, 
But yet he swerved as from a blow ; 
And, starting to each accent, sprang 
As from a sudden trumpet's clang. 
Meantime my cords were wet with gore. 
Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er ; 
And in my tongue the thirst became 
A something fierier far than flame. 
2t 



Discolour'd with a lifeless red. 
Which stands thereon like stiffened gore 
Upon the slain when battle's o'er, 
And some long winter's night hath shed 
Its frost o'er every tombless head, 
So cold and stark the raven's beak 
May peck unpierc'd each frozen cheek : 
'Twas a wild waste of underwood. 
And here and there a chestnut stood. 
The strong oak and the hardy pine ; 

But far apart — and well it were. 
Or else a different lot were mine — 

The boughs gave way and did not tear 
My limbs ; and I found strength to bear 
My wounds, already scarr'd with cold — 
My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 
We rustled through the leaves like wind. 
Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind ; 



362 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



By night I heard them on the track, 
Their troop came hard upon our back, 
With their long gallop which can tire 
The hound's deep hate, and hunter's fire ; 
Where'er we flew they foUow'd on, 
Nor left us with the morning sun ; 
Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, 
At day-break winding through the wood. 
And through the night had heard their 

feet 
Their stealing, rustling step repeat. 
Oh ! how I wish'd for spear or sword. 
At least to die amidst the horde. 
And perish — if it must be so — 
At bay, destroying many a foe. 
When first my courser's race begun, 
I wish'd the goal already won ; 
Bat now I doubted strength and speed : . 
Vain doubt ! his swift and savage breed 
Had nerv'd him like the mountain roe ; 
Nor faster falls the blinding snow 
Which whelms the peasant near the door, 
Whose threshold he shall cross no more, 
Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast, 
Than through the forest-paths he past — 
Untir'd, untam'd, and worse than wild ; 
All furious as a favour'd child 
Baulk'd of its wish ; or fiercer still — 
A woman piqued — who has her will. 



The wood was past ; 'twas more than iioovi, 
But chill the air, although in June ; 
Or it might be my veins ran cold — 
Prolong'd endurance tames the bold, 
And I was then not what I seem, 
But headlong as the wintry stream, 
And wore my feelings out before 
I well could count their causes o'er ; 
And what with fury, fear, and wrath. 
The tortures which beset my path. 
Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress. 
Thus bound in nature's nakedness : 
Sprung from a race, whose rising blood 
When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood, 
And trodden hard upon, is like 
The rattlesnake's, in act to strike ; 
What marvel if this worn-out trunk 
Beneath its woes a moment sunk 1 
The earth gave way, the skies roU'd round, 
I seem'd to sink upon the ground : 
But err'd, for I was fastly bound. 
My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore. 
And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more ; 
The skies spun like a mighty wheel ; 
I saw the trees like drmikards reel. 
And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes. 
Which saw no farthar ; he who dies 
Can die no more thm then I died, 
O'ertortur'd by that ghastly ride. 



STRIKING ILE. 

[From " Tlie Golden Butterfly." By Walter Besant and James Eice.] 




WENT off, after I left you, by the Pacific 
Railway— not the first time I travelled up 
and down that line — and I landed in New 
York. Mr. Colquhoun gave me a rig out, 
and you, sir " — he nodded to Jack — " you, 
sir, gave me the stamps to pay the ticket." 

Jack, accused of this act of benevolence, naturally 
blushed a guilty acknowledgment. 

Mr. Gilead P. Beck made no reference to the gift 
either then or at any subsec^uent period. Nor did 
he ever offer to repay it, even when he discovered 
the slenderness of Jack's resources. That showed 
that he was a sensitive and sympathetic man. To 
offer a small sum of money in repayment of a free 
gift from an extraordinarily rich man to a very 
poor one is not a delicate thing to do. Therefore 
this gentleman of the backwoods abstained from 
doing it. 

"New York City," he continued, "is not the 
village I should recommend to a man without 
dollars in his pocket. London, where there is an 
institootion, or a charity, or a hospital, or a work- 



house, or a hot-soup boiler in every street, is the 
place for that gentleman. Fiji, p'r'aps, for one who 
has a yearning after bananas and black civilisation. 
But not New York. No, gentlemen ; if you go to 
New York, let it be when you've made your pile, 
and not before. Then you will find out that there 
air thirty theatres in the city, with lovely and 
accomplished actresses in each, and you can walk 
into Delmonico's as if the place belonged to you. 
But for men down on their luck, New York is a 
cruel place. 

" I left that city, and I made my way north. I 
wanted to see the old folks I left behind long ago 
in Lexington ; I found them dead, and I was sorry. 
Then I went farther north. P'r'aps I was driven 
by the yellow toy hanging at my back. Anyhow 
it was only six weeks after I left you that I found 
myself in the city of Limerick on Lake Ontario. 

" You do not know the city of Limerick, I dare 
say. It was not famous, nor was it pretty. In 
fact, gentlemen, it was the most misbegotten loca- 
tion built around a swamp that ever called itself 



STRIKING ILE. 



363 



a city. There were a few delooded farmers trying 
to persuade themselves that things would look up ; 
there were a few downhearted settlers wondering 
why they ever came there, and how they would get 
out again ; and there were a few log-houses in a 
row which called themselves a street. 

" I got there, and I stayed there. Their carpenter 
was dead, and I am a handy man ; so I took his 
place. Then I made a few dollars doing chores 
around." 

" What are chores ? " 

"All sorts. The clocks were out of repair ; the 
handles were coming off the pails ; the chairs were 
without legs ; the pump-handle crank ; the very 
bell-rope in the meetin'-house was broken. You 
never saw such a helpless lot. I did not stay 
among them because I loved them, but because I 
saw things." 

" Ghosts ? " asked Ladds, still with an eye to the 
supernatural. 

" No, sir. That was what they thought I saw 
when I went prowling around by myself of an 
evening. They thought too that I was mad when 
I began to buy the land. You could buy it for 
nothing ; a dollar an acre ; half a dollar an acre ; 
anything an acre. I've mended a cart-wheel for a 
five-acre lot of swamp. They laughed at me. The 
children used to cry out when I passed along, 
' There goes mad Beck.' But I bought all I could, 
and my only regret was that I couldn't buy up the 
hull township — clear off men, women, and children, 
and start afresh. Some more champagne, Mr. 
Dunquerque." 

" What was the Golden Butterfly doing all this 
time 1 " asked Ladds. 

" That faithful iuseck, sir, was hanging around 
my neck, as when you were first introduced to him. 
He was whisperin' and eggin' me on, because he 
was boimd to fulfil the old squaw's prophecy. 
Without my knowing it, sir, that prodigy of the 
world, who is as alive as you air at this moment, 
will go on whisperin' till such time as the rope's 
played out and the smash comes. Then he'll be 
silent again." 

He spoke with a solemn earnestness which im- 
pressed his hearers. They looked at the fire-proof 
safe with a feeling that at any moment the metallic 
insect might open the door, fly forth, and, after 
hovering round the room, light at Mr. Beck's ear, 
and begin to whisper words of counsel. Did not 
Mohammed have a pigeon 1 and did not Louis 
Napoleon at Boulogne have an eagle 1 Why should 
not Mr. Beck have a butterfly. 

" The citizens of Limerick, gentlemen, in that 
dismal part of Canada where they bewail their 
miserable lives, air not a people who have eyes to 
see, ears to hear, or brains to understand. I saw 
that they were walking — no, sleeping — over fields 
of incalculable wealth, and they never suspected. 



They smoked their pipes and ate their pork. But 
they never saw and they never suspected. Between 
whiles they praised the Lord for sending them a 
fool like me, something to talk about and some- 
body to laugh at. They wanted to know what was 
in the little box ; they sent children to peep in at 
my window of an evening and report what I was 
doing. They reported that I was always doing the 
same thing ; always with a map of Limerick City 
and its picturesque and interestin' suburbs, staking 
out the ground and reckoning up my acres. That's 
what I did at night. And in the morning I looked 
about me and wondered where I shoidd begin." 

" What did you see when you looked about 1 " 

" I saw, sir, a barren bog. If it had been a land 
as fertile as the land of Canaan, that would not 
have made my heart to bound as it did bound when 
I looked across that swamp ; for I never was a 
tiller or a lover of the soil. A barren bog it was. 
The barrenest, boggiest part of it all was my claim ; 
when the natives spoke of it they called it Beck's 
Farm, and then the poor critturs squirmed in their 
chairs and laughed. Yes, they laughed. Beck's 
Farm, they said. It was the only thing they had 
to laugh about. Wall, up and down the face of 
that almighty bog there ran creeks, and after rainy 
weather the water stood about on the luorasses. 
Plenty of water, but, a curious thing, none of it 
fit to drink : no living thing except man would 
set his lips to that brackish, bad-smelling water. 
And that wasn't all ; sometimes a thick black slime 
rose to the surface of the marsh and lay there an 
inch thick ; sometimes you came upon patches of 
' gum-beds ' as they called them, where the ground 
was like tar, and smelt strong. That is what I saw 
when I looked around, sir. And to think that 
those poor mean pork-raisers saw it all the same as 
I did and never suspected ! Only cursed the gifts 
of the Lord when they weren't laughing at Beck's 
Farm." 

" And you found— what 1 Gold 1 " 

" No ; I found what I expected. And that was 
better than gold. Mind, I say nothing against 
gold. Gold has made many a pretty little for- 
tune " 

"Little!" 

" Little, sir. There's no big fortunes made out 
of gold. Though many a pretty viUa-location, with 
a tidy flower-garden, up and down the States, is 
built out of the gold-mines. Dimonds again. One 
or two men likes the name of dimonds ; but not 
many. There's the disadvantage about gold and 
dimonds that you have to dig for them, and to dig 
hard, and to dig by yourself mostly. Americans 
do not love digging. It is the only occupation 
that they air ashamed of. Then there's iron, and 
there's coals ; but you've got to dig for them. 
This great airth holds a hundred things covered 
up for them who know how to look and do not 



364 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



mind digging. But, gentlemen, the greatest gift 
the airth has to bestow she gave to me — abundant, 
spontaneous, etarnal, without bottom, and free." 

"And that is " 

" It is Ile." 

***** 

" It is nearly a year since I made up my mind to 
begin my well. I hieio it was there, because I'd 
been in Pennsylvania and learned the signs ; it 
was only the question whether I should strike it, 
and where. The neighbours thought I was digging 
for water, and figured around with their superior 



"Ladd's Cocoa, the only perfect fragrance." 

"Shut up, Ladds," growled Jack ; "don't inter- 
rupt." 

" I say, to you two young aristocrats a farmer's 
dinner in that township would not sound luxurious. 
Mine consisted, on that day and all days, of cold 
boiled pork and bread." 

" Ah, yah ! " said Jack Dunquerque, who had a 
proud stomacL 

" Yes, sir, my own remark every day when I sat 
down to that simple bancjuet. But when you are 
hungry you must eat, murmur though you will for 




' The neighbours thought I was digging for water.' 



intellecks, because they were certain that the 
water would be brackish. Then they got tired 
of watching, and I worked on. Boring a well is 
not quite the sort of work a man would select for 
a pleasant and variegated occupation. I reckon 
it's monotonous ; but I worked on. I knew what 
was coming ; I thought o' that Indian squaw, and 
I always had my Golden Butterfly tied in a box 
at my back. I bored and I bored. Day after 
day I bored. In that lonely miasmatic bog I 
bored all day and best part of the night. For 
nothing came, and sometimes qualms crossed my 
mind that perhaps there would never be anything. 
But always there Avas the gummy mud, smelling of 
what I knew was below, to lead me on. 

" It was the ninth day, and noon. I had a shanty 
called the farmhouse, about a hundred yards from 
my well. And there I was taking my dinner. To 
you two young English aristocrats " 



Egyptian flesh-pots. Cold pork was my dinner, 
with bread. And the water to wash it down mtli 
was brackish." 

"And while you were eating the i^ork," said 
Ladds, " the Golden Butterfly flew down the shaft 
by himself, and struck oil of his own accord." 

" No sir ; for once you are wrong. That most 
beautiful creation of Nature in her sweetest mood 
— she must have got up with the sun on a fine 
summer morning — was reposing in his box round 
my neck as usual. He did not go clown the 
shaft at all. Nobody went down. But some- 
thing came up — up like a fountain, up like 
the bubbling over of the airth's eternal teapot ; a 
black muddy jet of stuff. Great sun! I think I 
see it now." 

He paused and sighed. 

" It was nearly all Ile, pure and unadulterated, 
from the world's workshop. Would you believe it, 



STRIKING ILE. 



365 



gentlemen 1 There were not enough bar'ls, not by- 
hundreds, in the neighbourhood all round Limerick 
City, to catch that He. It flowed in a stream three 
feet deep do^^^l the creek ; it was carried away into 
the lake and lost ; it ran free and uninterrupted 
for three days and three nights. We saved what 
we could. The neighbours brought their pails, 
their buckets, their basins, their kettles ; there was 
not a utensil of aliy kind that was not filled with 
He, from the pig's trough to the child's pap-bowl. 
Not one. It ran and it ran. When the first flow 
subsided we calculated that seven millions of bar'ls 



messing. That was why the He ran away and was 
lost while I ate the cold boiled pork. Perhaps it's 
an interestin' fact that I never liked cold boiled 
pork before, and I have hated it ever since. 

" The great spurt sub.sided, and we went to work in 
earnest. That well has continued to yield five hun- 
dred bar'ls daily. That is four thousand five hundred 
dollars in my pocket every four and twenty hours." 

" Do you mean that your income is nine hundred 
pounds a day ? " asked Jack. 

" I do, sir. You go your pile on that. It is more, 
but I do not know how much more. Perhaiis it's 




The neighbours brought their pails, their buckets, their basins, their kettles." 



had been wasted and lost. Seven millions ! I am 
a Christian man, and grateful to the Butterfly, but 
I sometimes repine when I think of that wasted 
He. Every bar'l worth nine dollars at least, and 
most likely ten. Sixty-three millions of dollars. 
Twelve millions of pounds sterling lost in three 
days for want of a few coopers ! Did you ever 
think, Mr. Dunquerque, what you could do with 
twelve millions sterling ? " 

" I never did," said Jack. " My imagination 
never got beyond thousands." 

" With twelve millions I might have bought up 
the daily press of England, and made you all 
republicans in a month. I might have made the 
Panama Canal ; I might have bought Palesteen 
and sent the Jews back ; I might have given 
America fifty ironclads ; I might have put Don 
Carlos on the throne of Spain. But it warn't to 
be. Providence wants no rivals, meddling and 



twice as much. There are wells of mine sunk all 
over the place ; the swamp is covered with Gilead 
P. Beck's derricks. The township of Limerick has 
become the city of Rockoleaville — my name, that 
was — and a virtuous and industrious population 
are all engaged morning, noon, and night in fiUin' 
my pails. There's twenty-five bars, I believe, at 
this moment. There are three meetin'-houses and 
two daily papers, and there air fifteen lawyers." 

" But the oil may run dry." 

" It has run dry in Pennsylvania. That is so, 
and I do not deny it. But He will not run dry in 
Rockoleaville. I have been thinking over the geo- 
logical problem, and I have solved it, all by my- 
self. What is this world, gentlemen ? " 

" A round ball," said Jack, with the promptitude 
of a Board schoolboy and the profundity of a Wool- 
wich cadet. 

" Sir, it is like a great orange. It has its outer 



366 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



rind, what they call the crust. Get through that 
crust, and what do you find 1 " 

" More crust," replied Ladds, who was not a 
competition-wallah. 

" Did you ever eat pumpkin-pie, sir 1 " Mr. Beck 
replied, more Socratico, by asking another question. 
"And if you did, was your pie all crust 1 Inside 
that pie, sir, was pumpkin, apple, and juice. So 
inside the rind of the earth there may be all sorts 
of things : gold and iron, lava, diamonds, coals ; 
but the juice, the pie-juice, is He. You tap the 
rind and you get the He. This He will run, I 
calculate, for five thousand and fifty-two years, if 
they don't sinfully waste it, at an annual consump- 
tion of eighteen million bar'ls. Now that's a low 



estimate when you consider the progress of civili- 
sation. When it is all gone, perhaps before, this- 
poor old airth will crack up like an empty egg." 

This was an entirely new view of geology, and it 
required time for Mr. Beck's hearers to grasp the 
truth thus presented to their minds. They were 
silent. 

" At Rockoleaville," he went on, " I've got the 
pipe straight into the middle of the pie, and right 
through the crust. There's no mistake about that 
main shaft. Other mines may give out, but my He 
will run for ever." 

" Then we may congratulate you," said Jack., 
"on the possession of a boundless fortune." 

" You may, sir." 



BARDELL AGAINST PICKWICK. 

[From "The Pictwick Papers." By Chakles Dickens.] 




|R. JUSTICE STARELEIGH was 
a most particularly short man, and 
so fat, that he seemed all face and 
waistcoat. He rolled in, upon 
two little turned legs, and having 
bobbed gravely to the bar, who bobbed gravely to 
him, put his little legs underneath his table, and 
his little three-cornered hat upon it ; and when 
Mr. Justice Stareleigh had done this, all you could 
see of him was two queer little eyes, one broad 
pink face, and somewhere about half of a big and 
very comical-looking wig. 

The judge had no sooner taken his seat, than 
the officer on the floor of the court called out 
" Silence ! " in a commanding tone, upon which 
another oflScer in the gallery cried " Silence ! " in 
an angry manner, whereupon three or four more 
ushers shouted " Silence ! " in a voice of indignant 
remonstrance. This being done, a gentleman in 
black, who sat below the judge, proceeded to call 
over the names of the jury ; and, after a great deal 
0? bawling, it was discovered that only ten special 
jurymen were present. Upon this, Mr. Serjeant 
Buzfuz prayed a tales; the gentleman in black 
then proceeded to press into the special jury two 
of the common jurymen ; and a greengrocer and a 
chemist were caught directly. 

" Answer to your names, gentlemen, that you 
may be sworn," said the gentleman in black. 
"Richard Upwitch." 

" Here," said the greengrocer. 

"Thomas GroflJn." 

"Here," said the chemist. 

" Take the book, gentlemen. You shall well 
and truly try — " 

"I beg this court's pardon," said the chemist. 



who was a tall, thin, yellow- visaged man, "but Z 
hope this court will excuse my attendance." 

" On what grounds, sir 1 " said Mr. Ju.stice 
Stareleigh. 

" I have no assistant, my Lord," said the 
chemist. 

" I can't help that, sir," replied Mr. Justice 
Stareleigh. " You should hire one." 

" I can't afford it, my Lord," rejoined the 
chemist. 

" Then you ought to be able to afford it, sir,"" 
said the judge, reddening ; for Mr. Justice Stare- 
leigh's temper bordered on .the irritable, and 
brooked not contradiction. 

" I know I ought to do, if I got on as well as 
I deserved, but I don't, my Lord," answered the 
chemist. 

" Swear the gentleman," said the judge peremp- 
torily. 

The officer had got no further than the "You 
shall well and truly try," when he was again, 
interrupted by the chemist. 

" I am to be sworn, my Lord, am I '? " said the 
chemist. 

" Certainly, sir," replied the testy little judge. 

"Very well, my Lord," replied the chemist, in 
a resigned manner. " Then there'll be murder 
before this trial's over ; that's all. Swear me, if 
you please, sir ; " and sworn the chemist was, 
before the judge could find words to utter. 

"I merely wanted to observe, my Lord," said 
the chemist, taking his seat with great dilibera- 
tion, " that I've left nobody but an errand boy in 
my shop. He is a very nice boy, my Lord, but he 
is not acquainted with drugs ; and I know that 
the prevailing impression on his mind is, that , 



BAEDELL AGAINST PICKWICK. 



367 



Epsom salts means oxalic acid ; and syrup of 
senna, laudanum. That's all, my Lord." With 
this, the tall chemist composed himself into a 
comfortable attitude, and, assuming a pleasant 
expression of countenance, appeared to have pre- 
Ijareol himself for the worst. 

Mr. Pickwick was regarding the chemist with 
feelings of the deepe.st horror, when a slight 
sensation was perceptible in the body of the 
court ; and immediately afterwards Mrs. Bardell, 
supported by Mrs. Cluppins, was led in, and placed, 
in a drooping state, at the other end of the seat on 
"which Mr. Pickwick sat. An extra-sized umbrella 
was then handed in by Mr. Dodson, and a pair of 
pattens by Mr. Fogg, each of whom had prepared 
a most sympathising and melancholy face for the 
occasion. Mrs. Sanders then appeared, leading 
in Master Bardell. At sight of her child, Mrs. 
. Bardell started ; suddenly recollecting herself, she 
kissed him in a frantic manner ; then relapsing 
into a state of hysterical imbecility, the good lady 
requested to be informed where she was. In 
reply to this, Mrs. Cluppins and Mrs. Sander.", 
turned their heads away and wept, while Messrs. 
Dodson and Fogg entreated the plaintiff to 
compose herself. Serjeant Buzfuz rubbed his 
«yes very hard with a large white handkerchief, 
and gave an appealing look towards the jury, 
while the judge was visibly aifected, and several of 
the beholders tried to cough down their emotions. 

"Very good notion that, indeed," whispered 
Perker to Mr. Pickwick. "Capital fellows those 
Dodson and Fogg ; excellent ideas of effect, my 
dear sir, excellent." 

" Bardell and Pickwick," cried the gentleman in 
Tjlack, calling on the case, which stood first on the 
list. 

" I am for the plaintiff, my Lord," said Mr. 
Serjeant Buzfuz. 

" Who is with you, brother Buzfuz 1 " said the 
judge. Mr. Skimpin bowed to intimate that he 
-was. 

"I appear for the defendant, my Lord," said 
jVIr. Serjeant Snubbin. 

" Anybody with you, brother Snubbin 1 " in- 
quired the court. 

"^Ir. Phunky, my Lord," replied Serjeant 
Snubbin. 

" Serjeant Buzfuz and Mr. Skimpin for the 
plaintiff," said the judge, writing down the names 
in his note-book, and reading as he wrote ; " for 
the defendant, Serjeant Snubbin and Mr. Monkey." 

"Beg your Lordship's pardon, Phunky." 

" O, very good," said the judge ; " I never had 
the pleasure of hearing the gentleman's name 
before." Here Mr. Phunky bowed and smiled, 
and the judge bowed and smiled too, and then 
Mr. Phunky, blushing into the very whites of his 
eyes, tried to look as if he didn't know that every- 



body was gazing at him ; a thing which no man 
ever succeeded in doing yet, or in all reasonable 
probability, ever will. 

" Go on," said the judge. 

The ushers again called silence, and Mr. 
Skimpin proceeded to " open the case ; " and the 
case appeared to have very little inside it when he 
had opened it, for he kept such particulars as he 
knew completely to himself, and sat down, after 
a lapse of three minutes, leaving the jury in pre- 
cisely the same advanced stage of wisdom as they 
were in before. 

Serjeant Buzfuz then rose with all the majesty 
and dignity which the grave nature of the pi'O- 
ceediugs demanded, and having whi.spered to 
Dodson, and conferred briefly with Fogg, pulled 
his gown over his shoulders, settled his wig, and 
addressed the jury. 

Serjeant Buzfuz began by saying, that never, in 
the whole course of his professional experience — 
never, from the very first moment of his applying 
himself to the study and practice of the law — had 
he approached a case with feelings of such deep 
emotion, or with such a heavy sense of the respon- 
sibility imposed upon him — a responsibility, he 
would say, which he could never have .supported, 
were he not buoyed up and sustained by a con- 
viction so strong, that it amounted to positive 
certainty that the cause of truth and justice, or, 
in other words, the cause of his nurch-injured and 
most oppressed client, must prevail with the high- 
minded and intelligent dozen of men whom he 
now saw in that box before him. 

Counsel always begin in this way, because it 
puts the jury on the very best terms with them- 
selves, and makes them think what sharp fellows 
they must be. A visible effect was produced 
immediately ; several jurymen beginning to take 
voluminous notes with the utmost eagerness. 

" you have heard from my learned friend, 
gentlemen," continued Serjeant Buzfuz, well 
knowing that, from the learned friend alluded to, 
the gentleman of the jury had heard ju.st nothing 
at all — " you have heard from my learned friend, 
gentlemen, that this is an action for a breach of 
promise of marriage, in which the damages are 
laid at £1,500. But you have not heard from 
my learned friend, inasmuch as it did not come 
within my learned friend's province to tell you, 
what are the facts and circumstances of the case. 
Those facts and circumstances, gentlemen, you 
shall hear detailed by me, and proved by the un- 
impeachable female whom I will place in that box 
before you." 

Here Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, with a tremendous 
emphasis on the word " box," smote his table with 
a mighty sound, and glanced at Dodson and Fogg, 
who nodded admiration of the Serjeant, and 
indignant defiance of the defendant, 



368 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



" The plaintiff, gentlemen," continued Serjeant 
Buzfuz, in a soft and melanclioly voice, " the 
plaintiff is a widow ; yes, gentlemen, a mdow. 
The late Mr. Bardell, after enjoying, for many 
years, the esteem and confidence of his sovereign, 
as one of the guardians of the royal revenues, 
glided almost imperceptibly from the world, to 
seek elsewhere for that repose and peace which 
a custom-house can never afford." 

At this pathetic description of the decease of 
Mr. Bardell, who had been knocked on the head 
with a quart pot in a public-house cellar, the 
learned Serjeant's voice faltered, and he proceeded 
with emotion, 

" Some time before his death, he had stamped 
his likeness upon a little boy. With this little 
boy, the only pledge of her departed exciseman, 
Mrs. Bardell shrunk from the world, and courted 
the retirement and tranquillity of Goswell Street ; 
and here she placed in her front parlour-window a 
written placard, bearing this inscription — ' Apart- 
ments furnished for a single gentleman. Inquire 
within.'" Here Serjeant Buzfuz paused, while 
several gentlemen of the jury took a note of the 
document. 

" There is no date to that, is there, sir "i " 
inquired a juror. 

" There is no date, gentlemen," replied Serjeant 
Buzfuz ; " but I am instructed to say that it was 
put in the plaintiff's parlour-window just this 
time three years. I entreat the attention of the 
jury to the wording of this document — 'Apart- 
ments furnished for a single gentleman ! ' Mrs. 
Bardell's opinions of the opposite sex, gentlemen, 
were derived from a long contemplation of the 
inestimable equalities of her lost husband. She 
had no fear — she had no distrust — .she had no 
suspicion — all was confidence and reliance. ' Mr. 
Bardell,' said the widow ; ' Mr. Bardell was a 
man of honour — Mr. Bardell was a man of his 
word — Mr. Bardell was no deceiver — Mr. Bardell 
was once a single gentleman himself ; to single 
gentlemen I look for protection, for assistance, 
for comfort, and for consolation — in single gentle- 
men I shall perpetually see something to remind 
me of what Mr. Bardell was, when he first won 
my young and untried affections ; to a single 
gentleman, then, shall my lodgings be let.' 
Actuated by this beautiful and touching impulse 
(among the best impulses of our imperfect nature, 
gentlemen)— the lonely and desolate widow dried 
her tears, furnished her first floor, caught her 
innocent boy to her maternal bosom, and put the 
bill up in her parlour- window. Did it remain 
there long'? No. The serpent was on the watch, 
the train was laid, the mine was preparing, the 
sapper and miner was at work. Before the bill 
had been in the parlour- vrindow three days — three 
days, gentlemen— a Being, erect upon two legs. 



and bearing all the outward semblance of a man, 
and not of a monster, knocked at the door of 
Mrs. Bardell's house. He inquired within ; he 
took the lodgings ; and on the very next day he 
entered into possession of them. This man was 
Pickwick — Pickwick the defendant." 

Serjeant Buzfuz, who had proceeded with such 
volubility that his face was perfectly crimson, here 
paused for breath. The silence awoke Mr. Justice 
Stareleigh, who immediately wrote down some- 
thing with a pen without any ink in it, and 
looked unusually profound, to impress the jury 
with the belief that he always thought most 
deeply vsdth his eyes shut. Serjeant Buzfuz pro- 
ceeded : 

" Of this man Pickwick I will say little ; the 
subject presents but few attractions ; and I, 
gentlemen, am not the man, nor are you, gentle- 
men, the men, to delight in the contemplation of 
revolting heartlessness, and of systematic villanj^." 

Here Mr. Pickwick, vdio had been writhing 
in silence for some time, gave a \dolent start, 
as if sorhe vague idea of assaulting Serjeant 
Buzfuz, in the august presence of justice and 
law, suggested itself to his mind. An admonitory 
gesture from Perker restrained him, and he 
listened to the learned gentleman's continuation 
with a look of indignation, which contrasted 
forcibly with the admiring faces of Mrs. Cluppins 
and Mrs. Sanders. 

"I say systematic villany, gentlemen," said 
Serjeant Buzfuz, looking through Mr. Pickwick, 
and talking at him ; " and when I say systematic 
villany, let me tell the defendant Pickwick if 
he be in court, as I am informed he is, that it 
would have been more decent in him, more 
becoming, in better judgment, and in better 
taste, if he had stopped away. Let me tell him, 
gentlemen, that any gestures of dissent or dis- 
approbation in which he may indulge in this 
court will not go down with you ; that you will 
know how to value and how to appreciate them ; 
and let me tell him further, as my Lord will tell 
you, gentlemen, that a counsel, in the discharge of 
his duty to his client, is neither to be intimidated, 
nor bullied, nor put down ; and that any attempt 
to do either the one or the other, or the first, or 
the last, will recoil on the head of the attempter, 
be he plaintiff or be he defendant, be his name 
Pickwick, or Noakes, or Stoakes, or Stiles, or 
Brown, or Thompson." 

This little divergence from the subject in hand 
had of course the intended effect of turning all 
eyes to Mr. Pickwick. Serjeant Buzfuz, having 
partially recovered from the state of moral eleva- 
tion into which he had lashed himself, resumed ; 

" I shall show you, gentlemen, that for two 
years Pickwick continued to reside constantly, 
and without interruption or intermission, at Mrs. 



370 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



Barclell's house. I shall show you that Mrs. 
Bardell, during the whole of that time, waited on 
him, attended to his comforts, cooked his meals, 
looked out his linen for the washerwoman when 
it went abroad, darned, aired, and prepared it for 
"wear, when it came home, and, in short, enjoyed 
his fullest trust and confidence. I shall show you 
that, on many occaaions, he gave halfpence, and 
on some occasions even sixpences, to her little 
boy ; and I shall prove to you, by a witness 
whose testimony it will be impossible for my 
learned friend to weaken or controvert, that on 
one occasion he patted the boy on the head, and, 
after inquiring whether he had won any alley tors 
or commoneys lately (both of which I understand 
to be a particular species of marbles much prized 
by the youth of this town), made use of this 
remarkable expression — " How should you like to 
have another father?" I shall prove to you, 
gentlemen, that about a year ago, Pickwick 
suddenly began to absent, himself from home, 
during long intervals, as if with the intention 
of gradually breaking oif from my client ; but I 
.shall show you also, that his resolution was. not 
at that time sufficiently strong, or that his better 
feelings conquered, if better feelings he has, or 
that the charms and accomplishments of my client 
prevailed against his unmanly intentions ; by 
proving to you, that on one occasion, when he 
returned from the country, he distinctly and in 
terms, offered her marriage ; previously, however, 
taking special care that there should be no 
witnesses to their solemn contract ; and I am in a 
situation to prove to you, on the testimony of 
three of his own friends — most unA^olling witnesses, 
gentlemen — most unwilling witnesses — that on 
that morning he was discovered by them holding 
the plaintiff in his arms, and soothing her agitation 
by his caresses and endearments." 

A visible impression was produced upon the 
auditors by this part of the learned Serjeant's 
address. Drawing forth two very small scraps of 
paper, he proceeded : 

"xlnd now, gentlemen, but one word more. 
Two letters have passed between these parties, 
letters which are admitted to be in the hand- 
writing of the defendant, and which speak 
volumes indeed. These letters, too, bespeak the 
character of the man. They are not open, fervent, 
eloquent epistles, breathing nothing but the 
language of affectionate attachment. They are 
covert, sly, underhanded communications, but, 
fortunately, far more conclusive than if couched 
in the most glowing language and the most poetic 
imagery — letters that must be viewed with a 
cautious and suspicious eye — letters that were 
evidently intended at the time, by Pickwick, to 
mislead and delude any third parties into whose 
hands they might fall. Let me read the first : — 



'Garraway's, twelve o'clock. Dear Mrs. B. — Chops 
and Tomata sauce. Yours, Pickwick.' Gentle- 
men, what does this mean 1 ' Chops and Tomata 
sauce. Yours, Pickwick ! ' Chops ! Gracious 
heavens ! and Tomata sauce ! Gentlemen, is the 
happiness of a sensitive and confiding female to 
be trifled away by such shallow artifices as these ? 
The next has no date whatever, which is in itself 
suspicious — ' Dear Mrs. B., I shall not be at home 
till to-morrow. Slow coach.' And then follows 
this very, very remarkable expression — ' Don't 
trouble yourself about the warming-pan.' The 
warming-pan ! Why, gentlemen, who does trouble 
himself about a warming-pan 1 When was the 
peace of mind of man or woman broken or dis- 
turbed by a warming-pan, which is in itself a 
harmless, a useful, and I will add, gentlemen, a 
comforting article of domestic furniture ? Why is 
Mrs. Bardell so earnestly entreated not to agitate 
herself about this warming-pan, unless (as is no 
doubt the case) it is a mere cover for hidden fire — 
a mere substitute for some endearing word or 
promise, agreeably to a preconcerted system of 
correspondence, artfully contrived by Pickwick 
with a view to his contemplated desertion, and 
which I am not in a condition to explain ? And 
what does this allusion to the slow coach mean 1 
For aught I know, it may be a reference to 
Pickwick himself, who has most unciuestionably 
been a criminally slow coach during the whole 
of this transaction, but whose speed will now be 
very unexpectedly accelerated, and whose wJieeLs, 
gentlemen, as he will find to his cost, will very 
soon be greased by you ! " 

Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz paused in this place, to 
see whether the jury smiled at his joke; but 
as nobody took it but the greengrocer, whose 
sensitiveness on the subject was very probably 
occasioned by his having subjected a chaise-cart 
to the process in question on that identical 
morning, the learned serjeant considered it ad- 
visable to undergo a slight relapse into the 
dismals before he concluded. 

" But enough of this, gentlemen," said Mr. 
Serjeant Buzfuz, " it is difficidt to smile with an 
aching heart ; it is ill jesting when our deepest 
sympathies are awakened. My client's hopes and 
prospects are ruined, and it is no figure of speech 
to say that her occupation is gone indeed. The 
bill is down — but there is no tenant. Eligible 
single gentlemen pass and repass — but there is no 
invitation for them to inquire within or without. 
All is gloom and silence in the house ; even the 
voice of the child is hushed ; his infant sports 
are disregarded when his mother weeps ; his 
' alley tors ' and his ' commoneys ' are alike 
neglected ; he forgets the long familiar cry of 
' knuckle down ; ' and at tip-cheese, or odd and 
even, his hand is out. But Pickwick, gentlemen. 



AT THE ALMA. 



371 



Pickwick, the ruthless destroyer of this domestic 
oasis in the desert of Goswell Street — Pickwick, 
who lias choked up the well, and thrown ashes on 
the sward — Pickwick, who conies before you 
to-day -^vith his heartless toiiiata sauce and 
warming-pans — Pickwick still rears his head with 
unblushing effrontery, and gazes without a sigh 
on the ruin he has made. Damages, gentlemen — 
heavy damages, is the only punishment with 



which you can visit him ; the only recompense 
you can award to my client. And for those 
damages she now appeals to an enlightened, a 
high-minded, a right-feeling, a conscientious, a 
dispassionate, a sympathising, a contemplative 
jury of lier civilised countrymen." 

With this beautiful peroration, Mr. Serjeant 
Buzfuz sat down, and Mr. Justice Stareleigh 
woke up. 



AT THE ALMA. 

[From " The Adventures of Dr. Brady." By William Howaed Kcssell.] 




HEPiE must be a great change wrought 
in man's nature before he ceases to revel 
i| in war — not always in the heat of battle, 
^((^ which may find dross where the metal 

seemed purest — but in the enterprise and 
adventure of campaigning. It is a new 
sensation to find you are in danger from men you 
have never seen — who owe you no ill-will, whom 
you are bound to kill if you can — and to know 
that you vnll be honoured by all your fellows for 
doing the work. Most men must have the backs 
of their heads removed and some other matter put 
in place of the present grouting ere they cease to 
delight in such homicide ; and we may despair, I 
fear, of ever welcoming the advent of the day 
when a nation shall be brought to the bar of 
public opinion and condemned for murder because 
it has waged war — above all, successful war. 

I stood on a sand-hill, and saw the army move 
from the beach towards the enemy. It was a 
sight which fil'ed one's throat and made the heart 
swell — mine, although I had been working among 
the sick, and had sent off my last boatful of hope- 
less sufferers to the ships. The freshness of the 
morning air, the life and animation of the march, 
the swarming transports, and their fluttering 
signals and flapping canvas ; the stately pro- 
cession of the line-of-battle ships and frigates, as 
they moved on with their advance-guard of swift 
steamers ; the perfect order in which each scarlet 
oblong took up its place, as brigade after brigade 
formed, and the divisions extended and spread 
out over the rolling downs, fragrant with flowers 
and deep with pasture ; the galloping aides, riding 
from one bright patch of horsemen to the other— 
the dark masses of the artillery, the black fringe 
of the Rifles rolling before the wave as it swept 
over the plain ; on our left the cavalry moving in 
the light of their own helmets, sabres, and lance- 
points, the dun-coloured crowd of camp-followers, 
and the scanty arabas — all formed a picture — ah, 
no ! — formed a real body and soul of war, which 
was beautiful and terrible enough to justify the 



love and pride of kings ! Did I think of my 
vocation then 1 Not one bit ! I longed to ride 
with that whirling cavalry, or to march at the 
head of an obedient column. Why am I obliged 
to attend to the miserable driver whose leg has 
just been crushed by the wheel of a gun, and who 
will never mount horse again or join his comrades 
of the R.H.A. 1 It is a descent from Pegasus, and 
it does me good to touch the hard ground of 
matter-of-fact duty again. And when at last my 
turn came to move off vith my dear old Tigers,, 
all my enthusiasm was nigh smothered in the heat 
of the sweltering ranks ; for after many days 
of sea-carriage, the noblest heroes, packed close in 
ships, and destitute of water, will in tight cloth 
clothes .swelter, to say the least of it, under a 
Crimean September sun. I had acquired tli» 
right to purchase a horse. The cavalry swept in 
some Avretched creatures one morning, and a 
Tartar whose mind was much perturbed by fear 
respecting the genuineness of British sovereigns — 
he tested them, in British fashion, with his teeth 
— sold me a soliped which certainly had died of 
age and muscular imbecility but for hard spurring 
and the excitement around him. The Brighton 
downs (not quite so sharply accentuated) with a 
bluer sea and flowers springing in the grass in 
greater profusion than at home — this is what we 
are marching over in that ordered array from 
which the blaze of the sun is flashed back at every 
step in rays innumerable. But before us, and 
away towards the broad bands of rising ground 
purpled in the distance, and gradually heaping 
tier over tier till they are lost in the blue peak of 
the Tchatir Dagh, there ascend, reddening at the 
base, pillars of smoke in the still air — now black — 
now whitening as they die out. The Cossack has 
been busy with the torch, and he is preparing our 
welcome of fire and ashes ! 

Hour after hour we move on. It is a slow 
march, for the men must halt now and then to 
rest ; and it is needful to keep the order of our 
advance. During one of these breaks, when air 



372 



GLEANINGS FROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



army is resolved into myriads of units, when arms 
are piled, packs shifted, pipes lighted, and a hum 
which is the laughter and shouting of thousands 
all together swells over the plain, I rode on with 
Major Hood towards our cavaby, which was 
covering our front very prettily with its Light 
Brigade. We came to a narrow, sluggish, ditch- 
like stream groping through a fat meadow on its 
way to the sea. By the side of the road close 
to the bridge were the remains of a whitewashed 
farmhouse blackened by the smoke of the hayricks 
and outhouses, and charred by the heat so that 
the planks of the roof had crumpled up and 
broken away from the eaves. The major was a 
man of forethought. " The cavalry can't have had 
time to rnmmage this place. Let us go in and see 
if the Cossacks have left anything." 

We dismounted, hitched up our horses at the 
door of the Post Station of Buljanak, and entered 
the house. Room after room — it was all the same 
— furniture broken — drawers open and empty — 
scattered articles of clothing— every mark of hasty 
flight. As we opened one. door, a cat charged 
furiously between our legs and was followed by a 
kid, but in an instant a shot from Hood's revolver 
rolled the latter over. " There's our dinner for a 
couple of days, my lad ! I'm not sure we ought 
to have let pussy go, for cat's meat may be a 
delicacy if the Cossacks have their way. Now I'll 
just make our kid portable, and do you go on and 
try your luck. Don't spare anything eatable." I 
descended into the court ju.st as Standish bounded 
round the corner in pursuit of a wounded guinea- 
fowl, with a smoking pistol in his hand, and ran it 
to death in the embers of a hay-rick. 

" There," he exclaimed, " a few turns more and 
it would be roasted, feathers and all. Cam- 
paigning makes a fellow very hungry and 
dreadfully unprincipled. What a joke we think 
all this is !— but how savage we'd be if the 
French were potting our domestic animals about 
Clapham Common ! " 

And we three marauders pricked along the 
plain with our jilunder in our wallets till we got 
nigh the line of the cavalry skirmishers which had 
just halted in a hollow. On the ridge in front of 
them there was a dotted line of horsemen, which 
advanced towards us. As they came nearer, the 
long ilagiess lances and the round bullet-like 
heads of the Cossack horse were made manifest. 

"The canaille have got something behind them," 
said Hood, " as we shall see presently." 

The Cossacks came on bravely waving their 
lances, and their lively little horses curvetted 
prettily down the slope. Then came a tiny puff 
of smoke from one, and then another popped off 
his carbine, and the fire ran from one to the other 
along their line, and their horses pranced and 
kicked about more friskily than ever. Our 



skirmishers answered, and in their ranks too was 
equal commotion, and much gambadoing, buck- 
jumping, and rearing ; but no one was hurt, and 
the result of the spattering of small-arms was, 
now and then a little dust knocked up from the 
dry ground, or a singing in the air as a bullet 
wandered on its errand. 

" It's a capital illustration of the value of 
cavalry fire," said Hood. "But look, there they 
are in earnest ! " 

He pointed to the hill in front, and there 
indeed rose in sight a forest of lances. Next 
there appeared a dense mass of horse, which halted 
on the sky-line in three divisions ; the centre dark 
blue, the right white, and the left a light grey. 

" Ho ! ho ! my lads, I thought so," continued 
the major. " There is my Lord Cardigan and his 
Brigade, but whei'e are his guns 1 These fellows 
will soon let us have a taste of their iron." 

Our skirmishers were falling back. The Cossack 
line followed them with derisive cheers. Suddenly 
the centre square of dark blue on the ridge shook 
itself out, and opening right and left uncovered 
eight black specks on the hill. Out flew from one 
of them a fat puff of white smoke, and ere one 
could count twice a sharp swishing sound heralded 
but an instant in advance the visit of the round 
shot, which pitched right under my pony and 
covered the major and Standish with a violent 
shower of earth, small stones, and dust. 

"We are right in the line of their fire on the 
cavalry ! They take us for the staff, perhaps, 
owing to this gentleman's .splendid gold band. 
Come over to the left flank," advised our Mentor, 
who never stopped puffing his cigar for a 
moment. And as he spoke a shell burst over us, 
and I heard the singing of the fragments ; and 
swish came another .shot ! and whizz ! whizz ! 
whizz ! shot after shot all around us ! But Hood 
was imperative against any rapid movement. 
" No cantering ! No galloping ! A quiet trot to 
the flank, if you plea.se, gentlemen." 

It was now a very pretty sight indeed. The 
cavalry was slowly falling back, wheeling in alter- 
nate squadrons, with face to the enemy as they 
retired, whilst the Russians pressed forward with 
their guns as if to come down on us ere the 
Brigade could reach the cover of its artillery and 
the advancing army. In the distance behind us 
appeared the British, moving on like Atlantic 
rollers, and tracing the green plains with bands of 
scarlet and white ; and through the dust-clouds 
which came up from the tramp of horses and the 
wheels of bounding gun-carriages we could make 
out the artillery hastening to the rescue. The 
Russian guns ceased not to ply the cavalry, and 
here and there a horse fell or the ranks shook for 
a little as the missile found a victim. But the 
tables were soon turned on the enemy — a British 



AT THE ALMA. 



373 



"battery uulimbered close to us, opened fire, and, 
seconded by another, soon cliecked the Russian 
horse and forced them to gather up their guns. 
Presently they vanished over the hill again, and 
were seen no more. 

" What was it all about, sir 1 " puffed a stout 
Eifle captain, very red in the face from running 
along with his company, into which the last 
Russian round shot rolled slowly, to the great 
damage of a poor terrier, which ran at it, and lost 
all his teeth in consequence. "Are we engaged 
with the enemy ? " 



for help and mercy ; all mingled together, with a 
crackling and hissing of flames from burning 
villages, and a ringing treble of musketry ; this was 
the music to which the play was going, the actors 
terribly in earnest, some only caring to get away if 
they could, others only anxious to kill or be killed, 
so that the agony were over soon. With faces 
blackened with powder and eyes staring wildly, 
and teeth clenched and with tongues lolling out, 
the men pressed up the .slopes, some loading and 
firing coolly, others mechanically, moving on with 
very little formation towards the grey-coated 




At the Alma. ( Drawn by J. Bell,) 



"It was near being a surprise of our cavalry, 
that's all, sir," replied Hood. "More by chance 
than good guidance it wasn't. But the lads 
behaved beautifully." 

The armies halted for the night soon afterwards, 
•close to the banks of the little stream. 

And now here was I, on a sunshiny warm after- 
noon on a lovely autumn day, toiling up a hill 
which might have been a ridge removed from the 
infernal regions with all its demon population ! 
Tumult, indescribable and infinite ! the noise of 
cannon, for which there is no word, for it is not a 
roar, nor is it thunder ; the scream of shells, the 
rush of shot, the deadly song of the leaden birds 
in continuous flight around, the storm of human 
voices in all the variety of sound of which they are 
capable — command, angry urgence, pain, impreca- 
lion, hate, furious outcry, and passionate appeals 



columns posted above. I could see their brass- 
spiked helmets flittering about as the gunners 
loaded and fired, and the figures of the men, as 
they sponged out and rammed home, stood out 
distinctly against the snowy folds of smoke from 
the guns. To see a man fall gently forward on 
his face and hands as though he had tripped on a 
stone and would get up immediately, and yet 
to know he would never stir more, — to see another 
spring up in the air, drop his firelock, clap his 
hand to his heart, and plump into the grass, — to 
see a man pirouette and reel and drop, and try in 
vain to rise, — to see a man tumble and roll over 
again and again like a rabbit shot in full run, — to 
see a man stagger, lean against his musket, slowly 
incline himself to the ground and there lean on 
his arm whilst one hand pressed the wound, — to 
see a man topple abruptly and then crawl away, 



374 



GLEANINGS PROM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



dragging a broken leg behind liim, — to see a body- 
stand for a second ere it fell, witlioiit a head, or 
the trunk and head lying legless, — to see in the 
line of a rush of grape a track of dead and dying, 
just as small birds are cut down in winter-time by 
boys in a farm-yard — this was in a few minutes 
quite familiar to me, and was far less terrible than 
one glimpse of some terror-stricken wretch as, in 
fear of being trodden to death, he sought to creep 
away to a quiet place to die ; or the mute 
i-uploring faces of the wounded who all at once 
felt their part in the day was over. I was going I 
knew not where, for my orders had been of the 
vaguest. I was to place myself wherever the 
divisional medical officer might appoint. But he 
was not visi ble anywhere. And as to " wherever my 
services were needed," why, there was a fair field 
anywhere. But it was quite evident I was not on 
the right track at present, as I was too much in 
the way of glory, and had no right to its favours. 
Old Bagsliaw (he used to be so civil) shouted, 
"What are you doing here, sir? Go back to the 
rear at once, sir ! " as, waving his sword and 
mounted on a weak-legged Turkish pony, he led 
the Bengal Tigers over the broken-ground. Major 
Savage, a grey-haired, melancholy veteran, who 
was much oppressed by Mrs. Savage and many 
tyrannical children, was quite another being. He 
curvetted about on a lumbering commissariat cai't- 
horse, roaring, "Now then, that 'ere number one 
company, whatever's the reason you don't close 
hup, Captain Wilmot? Forerds, number one 
company — forerds ! Hincline your left a little 
forrerder, number two. That's it, my lads ! " — and 
so passed on. I saw the Tigers halt in an irregular 
line and open fire fiercely to check a grey block of 
helmeted infantry which came gravitating down 
the slope of the hill. In another second a lum- 
bering commissariat-horse came plunging past me, 
flinging up its great heels and making for the river. 
Bagshaw was quite right — I could be no use 
where I was. There was no one to help me to 
dress a wound or to carry away a wounded man, 
and I turned down towards the Alma, skirting the 
flaming village, and threading my way amongst 
the bodies, or avoiding the advancing battalions. 
The din was loud as ever, but a word of command, 
or a cry of pain can be heard through all the 
uproar of battle. To the right of the burning 
houses De Lacy Evans, with a small stafl^, was 
scanning the progress of the action on our left 
through his glass. He saw that the Light Division, 
though they had drawn the teeth of the Russians, 
were broken and overmatched. "Steele," he 
exclaimed, " ride over to his Royal Highness, and 
say I think the First Division should advance at 
once." Down, pouring solidly towards the stream, 
came the granite-like columns of the Muscovite ; 
and then through the eddying smoke the bear- 



skins of the Guards drew in sight, amid the 
foUage of the vineyards, and the river was- 
dammed by that living wall. They arrested and 
gathered up the stubborn debris of the gallant 
Light Division. Soon the gentle slope was 
seamed by black and scarlet bands, belted with 
musket flashes and bayonets. On the left of 
the Guards we could just catch through the trees 
the bonnets of the Highlanders ; behind them, 
motionless, part of the Light Division in square. 
Further on the left, out on the plain, were all 
our cavalry. Behind us, in splendid order, was 
advancing the Third Division. A group of officers 
has just passed down to the river close by ; a one- 
armed man, in blue frock-coat and cocked hat 
with white plume — we all know who he is — 
cantering gallantly and gaily, straight for the 
banks crested with Russians, as if he were at 
a review, leading his staff to do battle. On our 
right, the French are clustering on the hills and 
knolls, and fight under the thick vapour of their 
ever-rolling musketry. The general of the Second 
Division has galloped with his staff by the burning 
village to his men, who are engaged in desperate 
conflict with the enemy on the right of the- 
Guards. Wherever I turn there is work for me. 

Strange enough, but true ! In the midst of all 
the clamour and smoke, the swallows were swoop- 
ing about in the most unconcerned manner 
possible, rejoicing may be in the great embarrass- 
ment of the flies ! Once, indeed, a very large bird 
of that description, as I thought, took ofi' a piece 
of my hat ; and I learned that bits of shell may 
be mistaken for swallows when there is much 
smoke about. 

Everywhere cries for help, or mute looks of 
entreaty — lint ! and bandage ! and tourniquet I 
And for ever that roar incessant, and with all the 
monotony of death in its tone ! Is it never to end I 

Presently there came a break in the storm — a 
few fitful outbursts as violent as the intensest roll 
of musketry — then a booming of cannon — it rolls- 
further and further, then dies out — then come 
dropping shots — another rolling fire, and — " What 
is that ? " A ringing cheer ! Oh, such a cheer ! 
It is the wild hurrah of ten thousand men as they 
stand victorious in the sloppy grass, amid the 
dying and the dead, on the ridge of the Alma. 
And far away in the distance we hear the fanfare 
of the trumpets and the triumphant rattle of the 
drums of the French, whose dark masses crown 
the summits of the cliffs as the declining sun falls 
on the sheen of arms, and touches eyelids which 
will never open to its rays again. 

When the soldier's work is done the surgeon's 
begins. Let me spare my readers that night of 
horrors. I feared every moment to behold the 
face of -some old friend. I dreaded lest I should 
encounter the look of Gerald Desmond^ as the- 



THE BLIND LINNET. 



375 



■wounded were borne into the barn wliicli formed 
the operation room and hospital. But he was safe. 
" Captain Desmond, I can assure you, is not 
touched," said poor old Bagshaw ; '' I saw him at 
the General's quarters as they were moving me 
down here after all was over. It was a confounded 
shame to leave us without supports — a regular 
massacre, sir. I will talk sir — if it's my last 
word, I will say it was shockingly mulled. My 
dear old Tigers ! — we've had a dreadful mauling, 
but if you doctors can save my leg I'll live to 
command them again, please God. I defy that 



rascal who has been persecuting me all my life to 
stop my promotion this time ! I've done him 
now ! " 

And we did save old Bagshaw's leg, and he 
lived to command the Tigers at Inkerman and in 
the trenches, till he received a wound beyond our 
skill to cure, for his leg was carried off with the 
sharpest precision, and he may now be seen 
stumping down Pall Mall of a warm afternoon to 
his club, to expatiate on the "confounded shames" 
to which he is still exposed by his unknown perse- 
cutor, in the matter of regimental colonelcies. 




THE BLIJSTD LINNET. 

[By EOBERT Ettchanan.] 



fHE sempstress's linnet sings 
At the window opposite me ; — 
^-^ It feels the sun on its wings. 
Though it cannot see. 
Can a bird have thoughts 1 May be. 



The sempstress is sitting. 
High o'er the humming street. 

The little blind linnet is flitting 
Between the sun and her seat. 

All day long 



37G 



GLEANINGS FEOM POPULAR AUTHORS. 



She stitches wearily there, 
And I know she is not young, 

And I know she is not fair ; 
For I watch her head bent down 

Throughout the dreary clay. 
And the thin meek hair o' brown 

Is threaded with silver grey ; 
And now and then, with a start 
At the fluttering of her heart. 

She lifts her eyes to the bird, 
And I see in the dreary place 
The gleam of a thin white face. 

And my heart is stirr'd. 



Loud and long 

The linnet pipes his song ! 

For he cannot see 

The smoky street all round. 
But loud in the sun sings he, 

Though he hears the murmurous sound : 
For his poor blind eye-balls blink. 

While the yellow sunlights fall. 
And he thinks (if a bird can think) 

He hears a waterfall, 
Or the broad and beautiful river 

^Yashing fields of corn, 
Flowing for ever 

Through the woods where he was born ; 
And his voice grows stronger, 

While he thinks that he is there. 
And louder and longer 

Falls his song on the dusky air. 
And oft in the gloaming still. 

Perhaps (for who can tell ?) 



The musk and the muskatel, 
That grow on the window sill 
Cheat him with their smell. 



But the sempstress can see 

How dark things be ; i 

How black through the town 

The stream is flowing ; 
And tears fall down 

Upon her sewing. 
So at times she tries. 

When her trouble is stirr'd, 
To close her eyes. 

And be blind like the bird. 
And then, for a minute, 

As sweet tilings seem, 
As to the linnet 

Piping in his dream 1 
For .she feels on her brow 

The sunlight glowing, 
And hears nought now 

But a river flowing — 
A broad and beautiful river, 

Washing fields of corn, 
Flowing for ever 

Through the woods where she was born \ 
And a wild bird winging 
Over her head, and singing ; 
And she can smell 
The musk and muskatel 

That beside her grow, 
And, unaware, 
She murmurs an old air 

That she used to know ! 







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